


One of Many Great Fires

by delgaserasca



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Never Met, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Extremely Slow Burn, Glacially Slow Burn, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Spock never joined Starfleet, T'hy'la, Vulcan never joined the Federation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 126,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24995548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: “Commander Kirk.” Spock interrupts before Kirk is able to put his hands on T’Pring, fearing the resulting scandal will end talks before they have had ample opportunity to begin - and also because he does not believe it beyond T’Pring’s capacity to execute a maneuver from Suus Mahna and permanently incapacitate their esteemed guest. “Your presence here is most unexpected.”In an AU where Vulcan never joined the United Federation of Planets, Jim is sent to Vulcan to forge a political marriage with T’Pring. He meets Spock.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 255
Kudos: 435
Collections: T’hy’la Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _[This tumblr post](https://imaginehanniballecter-blog.tumblr.com/post/158565213779/not-to-sound-like-jane-austen-or-anything-but-if) says it all, really._
> 
> The art embedded in this fic is by **[Em95](https://station-station.tumblr.com)** who was absolutely the best person I could have hoped to have been paired with for this Big Bang. Please send her some love in the comments or on the Tumblr masterpost; she's earned it! I'm ecstatic about the art she's done for this fic, and so grateful for her genuine care and enthusiasm in deciding what to work on.
> 
> Thank you also to my betas, **[hestia8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestia8)** and **[grenadine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grenadine)** , who improved this fic with their attention. All remaining errors are my own. (Extended notes at the end.)

**PROLOGUE.**

What strikes Jim first is the heat. Even before the doors of the shuttle open onto vast red plains, the heat seeps through the walls and swaddles him close, sweat gathering at the back of his neck. Jim knows his face is red; his palms are damp. Good thing no one is going to want to shake them. Obscured from the rest of the shuttle by his leg, he forces his fingers to separate into the _ta’al_. He’s been practicing for days now; he’s just about got it down. It’s not elegant or effortless, but he doesn’t need to use his left hand to push his fingers apart any more so he’s counting that one a win. It’s taxing enough that he hasn’t had to think too much about _why_ he’s practicing.

Sulu is shifting in his periphery, hands steady on the helm as he brings them lightly down to the ground. He’s a little green around the ears - not as much as his new companions, Jim thinks wryly - but he seems solid enough. He’d been waiting for the USS Lexington at Deep Space 4 when the Farragut had berthed and Command had enlisted him in a short detour. Jim was glad of the company, but it had been bad enough dealing with his own crew mates’ response to his predicament, let alone having to be in a confined space with a stranger who was itching with curiosity. To be fair to the man, he hadn’t said a word, but Jim couldn’t help but wish he had Bones along for the ride. They’d been on rocky ground since the news broke a month before, but he’d been there in the transporter room when Jim had ambled in at the top of beta, ready to beam down to DS4 and the waiting shuttle.

“Didn’t think I’d leave you to fend for yourself, did you?” he’d asked, handing over a loaded medkit. It rattled comfortingly; Jim hadn’t needed to open it up to know it was filled with tri-ox and anti-nausea hypos.

Unable to hold back his grin, Jim had pulled Bones into a rough hug. “The thought had never crossed my mind.” He’d pulled back to look his friend in the eye. “Thanks, Bones.”

“Just get back in one piece,” Bones had grumbled. “And I want a regular report - dammit, Jim. This ain’t a vacation. You take care out there.”

Now, as Sulu completes the final de-pressurisation checks before disembarkation, Jim wonders what his friend would make of all this red for miles and miles. Nothing good, probably.

He startles when Sulu powers down; turns to see an amused look pass over his face.

“Ready to meet your bride?”

Ah, Jim thinks, there it is. The thing he’s been trying not to think about.

  


* * *

  


**“Love is one of many great fires.” -- Jack Gilbert, _The Great Fires_**

  


It’s fairly simple: secure a union with Vulcan; get the funds needed to make more ships.

And really, for Starfleet, it’s something of a coup - it’s not been easy to bring the Vulcans to the table. The Federation has been trying for years, but Vulcans are a secretive bunch, and they’ve kept to themselves for the most part. They’ve been willing enough to help with diplomatic efforts, but as the situation with the Klingons gradually devolved into all out warfare, they’d taken increasing steps to remain a neutral party. Apparently the precepts of logic don’t extend to armed combat.

Until the attack on ShiKahr.

Unprecedented and brutal, the attack had taken the Vulcan homeworld by surprise and resulted in a vast number of casualties. Starfleet had arrived in time to head off the incursion, but the end result had been the same: Vulcan could no longer remain on the sidelines. For all that the Federation had decried the attacks, there was also an undercurrent of relief. Finally, a way to get Vulcan on board. Command must have been salivating.

Unfortunately for Jim, diplomacy has many faces, and _securing a union_ means something very specific to the Vulcan High Command.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Captain Garrovick had said after Jim had been let out from his audience with the Admiralty. “There’ll be other ways for us to get what we need.”

“None as easy, though,” Jim had pointed out, “and none as quick, sir. Plus,” he’d added, “my own ship at the end of it.”

“And a wife,” Garrovick had felt compelled to add. “Vulcan marriage is— you know it’s not as straightforward as lying back and thinking of the Federation before disappearing on your mission. She’ll be with you, in your mind, the whole time.” The Captain had eyed him warily. “A bonding of this kind has never been tried before. We don’t know much about how it works.” He’d spread his hands a little helplessly. “It’s not going to be as easy as you think, Kirk.”

That much had become clear sooner rather than later. From the moment Jim had given his formal acceptance of the, er, _proposal_ , he’d begun an intensive crash course in Vulcan history and culture. It had seemed a little pointless; the Vulcans weren’t willing to send anyone up to the Farragut, and the Federation didn’t have more than the basics on hand. A desert planet, the temperatures on Vulcan were far in excess of Iowa, but the greater problem to surmount was its higher gravity. He’d had four weeks of regular shifts followed by increasing intervals of time in an atmospheric pressure chamber designed to simulate the conditions on Vulcan. It felt remarkably like being back at the Academy except he still had his usual responsibilities to cater to, and the textbooks were horrifically lacking in anything resembling detail.

To add insult to injury, no one would tell him anything about who he was marrying, and - more importantly - Bones was mad at him.

“Of all the harebrained schemes you’ve come up with, this one takes the biscuit.”

“Ah, come on, Bones, it’s not that bad.” Jim had tried to laugh off his friend’s concerns, but Bones seemed to take it personally. “It’s just a year, and then we’ll be back out here, on our own ship.”

“You realize you’re marrying a person, Jim? A real living being? What happens to her once you swan off on your adventures?” Bones had refused to look up from his hands, going about the medbay picking up and putting down instruments according to some design only he seemed to know. “Hell of a dowry, giving a man a ship in exchange for a bride. Lord knows what those pointy-eared bastards were thinking.”

Jim knows about as much about what Vulcans think as the next person - less, even, not really having had dealings with them. But what he’s thinking. Well.

What Jim would have said, had anyone stopped to ask him, is that he had hoped for more. He’d always been a romantic at heart; he’d always hoped he’d meet someone more organically than by arrangement. It’s not that he’d ever struggled to meet people, but it had been harder to keep hold of them afterwards. There was always a career in the way, his or theirs, and he’d never felt right asking someone to wait for him. But now— well, he’s not the one doing the asking.

He has a year to woo this woman, whoever she is, and build the foundations of a real marriage, someone to come back to at the end of the war. Someone to call a home. Some part of him thought maybe this could be a chance at something real. And hell, if it wasn’t, at least there’d be a ship and a captaincy at the end of it. Win-win, right?

Right.

  
  


The shuttle has landed outside ShiKahr. From where they’ve set down, Jim can still see the damage wrought by the Klingon assault. The skyline is as familiar to him as holos of San Francisco, and it’s pock-marked now, parcels of ocherous sky showing where once there had been towers. Vulcan’s orbital defenses are built on the latest technology available in the Federation, but somehow the Klingons had managed to get past them. Something about that didn’t sit right with Jim, but he hadn’t had time to dwell on it. It’s been six months since the incursion; there’ve been other battles since then.

In the distance, to what Jim is optimistically calling the west of the city, he can see a heavy shadow cutting sharply across the copper-hued dust. He exhales sharply in recognition: it’s the saucer section of the USS Enterprise. The Farragut hadn’t been on hand to lend aid to the Vulcans, but the Enterprise had been, called in to assist from Andoria as the nearest available ship. Strategic maneuvering and decisive shooting had managed to fend off the attack, but they’d taken enough damage that the Captain had been forced to relinquish the ship. Four hundred souls saved, a full incursion on ShiKahr averted, and Christopher Pike now promoted to Fleet Captain. It was a little precipitous, the way war-time promotions often could be, but well-earned. Jim could only think it was cold comfort against the loss of a ship. What a thing to have to give up. Jim’s not sure whether he could.

There are only two Vulcans waiting for them when they disembark, both male by the look of things, wearing somber looks and heavy, gray robes. Jim jumps down from the shuttle, shirt sticking to his back.

Their numbers are significantly lacking. The last thing Garrovick had told him was that his counterpart (his fiancée, Jim thinks nonsensically, he has a _fiancée_ now) would be part of the welcome party coming to greet him. Jim’s traveling alone - Starfleet doesn’t have the manpower to relinquish more than one person, especially not for a whole year during active warfare - but there’s a diplomatic party already bedded down in trade talks with the Vulcan High Command. Jim’s the face of this whole effort, but he’s not the brains; his job is to tie the knot and not offend anyone in the process. Any agreement will be signed on the day of the wedding. (The wedding! How has Jim only just realized there would have to be a _wedding_?) Whatever the arrangement, Garrovick was clear: Jim’s curiosity would be answered when he landed.

Jim steps down slowly, feeling the strain of the thinner atmosphere. " _Dif-tor heh smusma_ ,” he attempts, raising his hand in his best approximation of the _ta’al_ , fingers curling despite his best efforts. In his periphery he sees Sulu nod in greeting and wonders why he hadn’t thought of that.

The taller of the two Vulcans raises an eyebrow in response. He offers the _ta’al_ with ease, standing perfectly straight. “Peace and long life, Commander Kirk,” he says, in Standard. Was that _attitude_? Probably not. Vulcans aren’t known for it. “Welcome to Vulcan. We thank you for agreeing to land outside the city.”

Jim nods, even though they hadn’t had much choice. ShiKahr has been designated a no-fly zone, and the shuttle Starfleet gave them for the trip doesn’t have transporter capability built-in. “If you don’t mind my asking, where is everyone?”

“The residents of ShiKahr remain within the confines of the city.”

Not knowing whether the hiccup in his stomach is relief or disappointment, Jim nods as though he understands.

“Naturally.” He spreads his hands. “It was just— my understanding had been—”

“Ah.” The taller Vulcan inclines his head. “You wish to know the whereabouts of your intended. I regret to inform you that she has been detained.”

“Regret?” Sulu mutters under his breath. “Isn’t that an emotion?”

Sulu obviously didn’t score highly in xenobiology, or he underestimated the true breadth of _acute hearing_ , but the Vulcan responds.

“A term intended merely to convey a familiar human idea.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Jim interrupts, frowning briefly at Sulu. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

If the Vulcan hears the censure, he doesn’t answer it. “I am Spock,” he says. “My companion is Sokel. Please retrieve your belongings so we may begin our journey to your accommodations.”

There’s a beat where no one moves, before Sulu shuffles indecisively then turns to the shuttle to help Jim offload his luggage. “Sir,” he murmurs, having learned from his previous mistake. “Are you going to be okay here?”

Throwing his bag over his shoulder, Jim claps Sulu on the back. “Oh, I’ll be all right, Lieutenant. Thanks for the ride.” He holds out his hand. “Good luck with your new posting.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sulu’s handshake is firm and reassuring. “If you find yourself short a helmsman when you get that new ship of yours, I’m sure I’ll be broken in by then.”

Jim laughs, “I’ll bear that in mind.” He watches as Sulu turns and gets back into the shuttle before walking over to the Vulcans’ short-range transport where Spock remains impassive. Behind him, Sokel has an eyebrow raised in what must pass for alarm here on Vulcan, but says nothing, choosing instead to climb into the transport. Overall, it’s smaller than the shuttle Jim came in on, but in the absence of warp-capable technology, the interior is more spacious. Sokel settles into the helm leaving Jim to clamber onto a bench in the back, Spock silently choosing to sit opposite him. There’s a hint of breeze as the forcefield shimmers into place, leaving behind the faint scent of ozone that accompanies all shielding when exposed to atmosphere. It’s a matter of moments before the transport turns and begins to make its way towards ShiKahr. Jim watches through the forcefield as the shuttle engages thrusters, kicking up a red wave of dust as it lifts and departs.

  
  


ShiKahr is a metropolis but even with the high number of residents, the overwhelming atmosphere is one of sedate calm. Vulcans amass in pairs or threes, all singularly intent on reaching their destinations. The amount of traffic seems low but Jim can’t tell whether that’s the way of things or it’s a change wrought by the attack. As they near what seems to be the center of the city, buildings careen towards each other, space at a premium, and the land climbs steadily upward, structures emerging from what look to be jagged cliff-faces, buildings hanging through the outcrops. Sokel winds them through dark, narrow streets, navigating the close quarters with ease as they pass under a palatial building that towers above the rest of the city.

As they near the currently-embargoed space port, the city levels out and the population diversifies - Jim spots an Edosian conversing with an animated Tellurite, and, weirdly, what looks to be an entire family of Andorians. Here the careful lines begin to break down, but for the most part ShiKahr is much like its people: stately and severe, and rigorously ordered. Spock sits preternaturally still, offering no commentary on the surroundings, not landmarks or destinations of note.

Sokel seems to be taking them through the city, clear to the other side, and in the distance Jim can see a mountain range emerge from the horizon, dark and impassable. Gol, he surmises, remembering from his studies; a site of great significance to the Vulcan people. There’s a story there about Surak, but Jim doesn’t know much more about it; Vulcan secrecy extends to their philosophy as well as their history. Somewhere in that direction lie the remains of the Enterprise. He wonders if there’s going to be any efforts to retrieve it or whether it, too, will be given over to the land to calcify.

They come to a dignified stop outside a number of low-lying buildings, single-story with flat roofs that are made from the same burnt-umber brick as the rest of the city, but are notably more angular - newer, Jim thinks, or built for some other purpose. Sokel turns to look at Spock, then leaves the transport and disappears into the nearest dwelling. Jim makes to pick up his bag when Spock speaks unexpectedly.

“It would be wise to refrain from tactile displays,” he says quietly. Jim looks up at him in surprise. “You will draw unwarranted attention.”

Tactile displays? “I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning,” Jim says, straightening to look at him head-on. “What ’tactile displays’?” He leans on the words a little, but he’s not sure if the inflection translates.

“The touching of hands is, for Vulcans, a most intimate display,” Spock explains. “Such behavior will not be welcomed here. It is important, for your own benefit, that you refrain.”

Jim sits back on the bench, thinking it over. “You mean the handshake, with Sulu back there?” He thinks about Sokel’s expression before he’d made for the transport. Well, that explains that.

“Forgive me; I wasn’t aware.”

“It is not a matter of forgiveness,” Spock remarks. “You were not to know. It is not logical to censure where one can educate and remedy instead. I have edified you for that reason. You will find your time here more—” he pauses briefly, an almost human quirk that makes Jim think he’s been chosen specifically to help him settle in, “—manageable if you are able to restrict your more human impulses.”

 _Human impulses_ , Jim mouths to himself. “Yes, fine,” he snaps, trying not to let his offense show, “I’ll try my best to curb my ’human’ predilections, you know, having had a decade or two to come up with them and all.”

If Spock hears the sarcasm, he ignores it. “That will be prudent.” He stands gracefully and leaves the transport, leaving Jim to scramble for his bag and topple out after him.

  
  


The accommodations are sparse and austere, though Jim can see that efforts have been made towards his comfort. He sees a few stools, if not any chairs, and there’s a table in the main living area, as well as a replicator. The walls are bare, but the floor has a number of woven mats which, were he feeling charitable, Jim might deign to call rugs. Well, it’s a start. Hard to ensure something if you don’t have a good metric for what it entails, and Jim can’t see Vulcans being big on creature comforts.

It’s a two-room apartment with a bathroom leading off what Jim is only considering a bedroom because someone has provided a cot that’s nestled across an alcove of sorts. Bathroom is a euphemism; there’s waste facilities and a sonic shower which he’d known was going to be the deal, but he’s still a little disappointed to see.

There’s a lot of natural light, and the windows are set to filter most of the glare, for which he’s grateful. A door opposite the entrance leads out into some sort of communal rock garden - he can see the other units also lead out here, but he can’t see any movement. It looks like he’s the only one here.

“These buildings were once storehouses, hence their strictly utilitarian design,” Spock explains. “They were appropriated a number of years ago to accommodate visiting ambassadors and their staff. However, the Federation’s delegation outnumbers the number of rooms available at this location, so they are being hosted by the families of the Vulcan High Command that are able to do so.” He turns to Jim. “The council determined that you could not be asked to manage under the same conditions, as your stay here will be for a greater duration. It was deemed that private accommodations would be more suitable.”

Spock proceeds to outline the week’s itinerary, but Jim is caught on the idea that he’s going to be out here by himself. It’s bad enough he couldn’t bring anyone with him, but he’d hoped at least to have a roommate. But then, Jim isn’t here to make nice with visiting ambassadors and their retinues. No, he’s here to befriend, and get friendly with, a very specific Vulcan. Speaking of—

“My… intended.” He interrupts Spock’s list, which so far seems to include some local landmarks and the VSA. “She lives nearby?”

“She is—” another of those telling, quicksilver pauses, “not nearby. Her family dwells further out of the city, towards Gol.” Spock seems to gather himself. “Nevertheless, you will have ample opportunity to learn more of her when you meet.”

It’s Jim’s turn to raise his brow. “When’s that likely to be, do you think?”

“You have not read the briefing materials,” Spock says. His tone is still flat, but somehow Jim is sure he catches an edge of frustration.

Jim grimaces; he’d skimmed the highlights. “It was 80 pages; I didn’t have time to finish it.” If he’d known there’d be information in there about his fiancée, he might have read it more closely but the first five pages were about the schedule of expected talks and he’d assumed he could catch up on it later.

“Then you should know that there is to be a gathering in a few days to acknowledge the impending union between our peoples.”

“A party?”

“Vulcans do not hold parties,” Spock says. “However, as the function has been requested by the visiting delegation, that would not be an inaccurate term.” He seems to think that’s more than enough information and turns away from the garden to head for the door. “You are not confined here, Commander, but I urge you to request assistance should you have need to venture outside these walls.” He pauses again by the door. “Until such time as you are more intimate with our customs, it would be to your benefit to avoid interacting with too many of the general populace, to prevent you from causing some offense.”

High praise, Jim thinks wryly. “Glad to know I made a good first impression.”

From his place at the door, Spock straightens, a feat that moments ago had seemed impossible. “Commander, I merely wish to ensure that your stay here is comfortable and that you have every opportunity to ensure that the ’first impression’ you make on the Vulcan elders is favorable.” He pauses again, noticeably this time. “My compatriots have not had the same opportunity for exposure to humans that I have. They will not be accustomed to your open display of emotions, and while there can be no offense where none is intended, nonetheless, it would be wise to take every precaution against misunderstanding.”

Laid out like that, Jim realizes that Spock is trying to help him and in return Jim has been acting like a child who isn’t allowed to open his presents on Christmas Eve. He feels chastened, even more so when his attempts to apologize are gently but firmly rebuffed.

It’s only after Spock leaves that Jim realizes he still doesn’t know his fiancée’s name.


	2. Chapter 2

The experience of meeting Commander Kirk forces Spock to reassess his equilibrium. It is not true to say that he is perturbed, but nonetheless, meditation is required. The day has not gone to plan.

He was not expected to be in attendance when Starfleet’s representative arrived on Vulcan. He had, in fact, been scheduled for additional time within the laboratories at the Vulcan Science Academy. He had been awaiting his appointment with anticipation, as he had intended to continue his experiments with dilithium crystals with the knowledge that his work could result in the further advancement of warp technology.

And yet, as was often the case where T’Pring was involved, Spock’s expectations did not bear fruit in reality.

  
  


The matter of Vulcan’s entry into the United Federation of Planets was a common topic of conversation among the planet’s inhabitants and had been for decades. For all that Spock’s people proclaimed to embrace the principles of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, his own nascency had swiftly proven that there were limits even to the practice of logic, some violently placid corners where it was forbidden entry. And yet, opinions were evenly divided between those in favor and those opposed to the Federation. Those in favor believed it only logical to pool resources and knowledge, to offer logic to matters of peace and trade of goods and technology to the benefit of all. Detractors argued out loud that for a peacekeeping institution, the Federation had a very large military force, while privately dismissing the notion that any outworlder could have much of worth to offer the Vulcan people.

To say that Vulcan was happy to be allied with the Federation would be a misnomer; that they saw the logic in aligning themselves with the prevailing power was only natural. Yet it had taken the Klingon attack on ShiKahr to solidify that alignment. The loss of hundreds in one day had clamored across psychic waves like an earthquake, vibrating from the epicenter of the attack out across the planet. It had been as though the entire race had been rung like a bell. Even Spock’s mother, whose connection to the family was possible solely through her bonds to Sarek and Spock, had winced at the sudden crescendo of fear and panic. Spurning the Federation was no longer an option: Vulcan was in need of defensive force. A union was only logical.

The question of marriage, however, had taken even Sarek unawares.

Many centuries had passed since marriage had been used to enforce political alliances. A vestige of pre-Reformation tradition, a bond forged between opposing peoples often brought them, however briefly, into accordance. Unsurprisingly, historical passions were not easily overcome by the joining of two minds, and while the _telsu_ would be matched for life, the same could not be said of the concurrent treaties. The Vulcan High Command’s insistence on adherence to such traditions did not appear logical to Spock; even less so was their choice of bondmate for the Federation’s representative.

Most bondings began in childhood with the _koon’ul_ , but the very nature of a political match meant that such arrangements were impossible. The Vulcan High Command, therefore, was forced to choose an adult who had yet to undergo their Time. The consensus had been that one of the Vulcans who had lost their _kugalsu_ during the recent attacks would be chosen. And yet—

“My son,” Sarek had said upon returning from the council meeting held to decide the matter. “The High Command has chosen T’Pring to be our people’s representative in the union with the Federation.”

Spock himself was not displeased as such in the council’s choice, though he could admit some curiosity over the decision - one which, notably, left him without an intended of his own. If T’Pring’s forefather had hoped to rid his line of Spock’s diluted blood, then he had chosen a most unusual manner in which to do so. It was unclear whether the news was well-received by Sarek, whose implacable stoicism remained unmarred, but most surprising was Spock’s mother’s dismay. Spock was accustomed to his mother’s human emotionalism, having had an entire lifetime to adapt, but where he had assumed his mother would be pleased - having long been opposed to the match with T’Pring - it seemed he was gravely mistaken.

“What logic is there in breaking an established _koon’ul_?” she’d asked Sarek.

“The High Command discussed the many particulars of the various candidates’ suitability,” Sarek replied. “T’Pring is known to have a particularly fortified mind.”

By this it was understood that the council had considered T’Pring the most suitable candidate specifically because of her betrothal to Spock, the assumption being that her will would already have been challenged by having to bond with a disordered, half-human mind.

Privately Spock was dubious as to T’Pring’s suitability, not because she lacked an eminently logical and brilliant mind, but because her bond with Spock was not one she had received with equanimity. It was likely, then, that she had not been consulted in the matter of her upcoming nuptials. He could not imagine that she would be content to bond with an outworlder. Spock, at least, had the benefit of being half-Vulcan, and so raised in their people’s ways and traditions; any Federation representative would have no such grounding.

" _Kaiidth_ ,” Sarek had concluded.

Spock had thought that the last of the matter; in the recesses of his mind he could admit to what could, in another species, be called relief. He had seen the logic in tying his mind to T’Pring’s as a child, but he could also see logic in breaking what had been, on both sides, a failed experiment. T’Pring had made no secret of her discontent; her side of the bond was sealed to Spock in entirety, despite their otherwise genial acquaintance. No matter: with his hybrid physiology, there was no reason to suppose that Spock would even encounter his Time.

This was not, it seemed, Amanda’s primary concern.

With many years to accustom herself to Vulcan practices, Amanda did not force a confrontation. Indeed, from what he knew of his mother, Spock would never expect such behavior from her; she was, by all available evidence, the best example of her race. Yet it was also true that his mother had a capacity for being unpredictable, which though in itself was not an inherently negative trait, nonetheless invited an element of disruption to Spock’s life. So it was that when Spock brought her the evening meal she broached the topic of her concerns.

“Entry into the Federation will prove to be vastly important for Vulcan,” she had said, disturbing their habit of eating together in quiet. “It will be the advent of unimaginable scientific, cultural and diplomatic exchange. Spock, I cannot overestimate the potential benefits to our people.”

“While I am unable to calculate the probabilities, not being in possession of all the pertinent facts, I must broadly agree with your conclusions, Mother,” Spock had answered, despite his mother’s forceful use of hyperbole. “The statistical probability of an increase in cultural exchange is more likely when there are new cultures with which to make them.”

“Then you agree, Spock, that whoever holds responsibility for maintaining the relationship between Vulcan and the Federation must do all that they can to ensure its success.”

Spock had not disagreed with his mother’s overall assertion. It remained true that a formal alliance with the Federation was one of great value to all parties, and towards that end it was only logical that any ambassador for the Vulcan people should endeavor to safeguard its endurance, but it was also true that deeming an act logical did not automatically confirm its necessity.

Spock had found that on those grounds he was unable to agree with his mother, but he had further understood that she argued not from a foundation of logic, but one of emotion which, try as she might, she could not erase. He would not suggest that this was to her detriment, but could equally acknowledge that such foundations made reasoned debate between them a creative pursuit of words unsaid more than plain statements. It was not a manner of discourse in which Spock was particularly skilled, but it could not be suggested that his mother had not given him ample opportunity to practice.

He could, then, agree with her sentiment, even if that were not what he would prefer.

“You are concerned with T’Pring’s appointment as our ambassador,” he had deduced.

“She has an indisputably brilliant mind,” his mother had said, “but she may… struggle with this particular challenge. She will need assistance.” At this Amanda had cast a glance at her son. “She may need support from someone more familiar with human emotionalism.”

That time the intuitive leap was easier to make. “You wish for me to offer my assistance.”

Amanda had held his gaze with gentle amusement. “I wish for you to be vigilant to Vulcan’s needs,” she had said, before picking up her utensils with renewed interest and taking another bite of her evening meal. “Thank you for dinner, Spock. It’s delicious.”

  
  


T’Pring has a singular talent for catching Spock unawares.

As a child, he had been unprepared for her rejection of their _koon’ul_ because it did not occur to him that something arranged in their best interests would be met with opposition. Mere days after the ceremony T’Pring had approached Spock before the commencement of their school day - another surprise as she had swiftly closed off her end of the bond - and the two of them had come to an agreement over their betrothal. Spock would not seek to reach T’Pring through their bond, and T’Pring in turn would acknowledge Spock in front of their peers should the need arise.

The early years of their betrothal were unremarkable: it was not in their habit to socialize with one another, and Spock would seldom encounter T’Pring outside the Vulcan Learning Center. Yet this practice, too, changed without prior warning. One day, following class, she had approached him without preamble.

“You are unmatched among our peers in advanced computing,” she had said. “You will assist me with the material. In return, I will aid you in your mental disciplines.”

In striking this bargain, T’Pring inadvertently gave way to the possibility of greater intimacy between them. While she never shared any of herself through the shallow melds she facilitated for Spock’s edification, neither did she shield herself completely from his curiosity. Spock came to admire her clinical understanding and adherence to the practice of logic, learning in time to similarly order his thoughts, and in turn T’Pring came to appreciate Spock’s faculty for learning.

“You lack the necessary discipline,” she had said after one such meld, “but your mind is powerful. Moreover, you are able to cohere new ideas quickly and find practical applications for them.”

“You honor me,” Spock had replied.

“The cause is sufficient,” said T’Pring.

They had continued their acquaintance in private and, without discussion, in secret. Spock did not go out of his way to keep the information from his parents, but nor did he speak of it without prompting - a prompting that never arose, as neither Sarek nor Amanda had cause to believe that Spock’s daily habits had changed. To suggest this was an act of deceit would be in error, yet Spock could accept the need to be circumspect.

Following their graduation from the Vulcan Science Academy and acceptance of research positions within their respective fields, T’Pring continued to meet with Spock, albeit less frequently. They would convene to play _kal-toh_ and exchange recommendations on journal articles, or notes on one another’s papers. Spock valued T’Pring’s insight, and her ability to cut his verbosity down to the essentials; T’Pring, Spock assumed, was in want of company. It remained true that she was unmatched in intellect among their peers.

Nevertheless, her appearance at the VSA the morning of Kirk’s arrival was unexpected. T’Pring had been characteristically unwilling to discuss the subject of her upcoming nuptials with Spock, even if they entailed breaking their _koon’ul_. While Spock had taken heed of his mother’s concerns, he knew that offering his assistance to T’Pring before she requested it would be imprudent. It seemed to him that regardless of her personal preferences, T’Pring had concluded that it was her duty to acquiesce to the Vulcan High Command’s demands of her, and saw no further merit in debating the matter.

Her appearance at the VSA that morning was not in keeping with those assumptions.

“You do not intend to greet your intended upon their arrival?” Spock had asked.

“To what end?” T’Pring had asked. “Sokel is driving the transport. It does not require a second pilot.”

Conscious of eavesdroppers, Spock did not approach further but dropped his voice lower. “It would be unwise to begin your courtship with insult.”

At this, T’Pring turned to him from her laboratory bench. “I have no knowledge of what would or would not present an insult to our visitor, nor could he know the same of me. Allowances will have to be made.” She had turned back to her study. “You seem uncommonly knowledgeable on the matter. Perhaps you are better suited to the task.”

Which is how Spock found himself forfeiting his laboratory hours to meet the human Commander James Kirk.

  
  


Three days after he left the Commander at his new dwelling, raised voices disturb Spock’s postponed lab time. He had not had cause to return to visit the Commander; there had been no invitation from Kirk, which was evidence enough that he was adhering to Spock’s recommendation that he keep from drawing attention to himself.

In this, Spock is once again given opportunity to doubt himself.

It is not the Vulcan way to raise one’s voice when impassioned; indeed, it is not the Vulcan way to become impassioned. As such, the commotion is heard throughout the laboratories, and likely also the rest of the VSA, and met with unanimous curiosity. Around him, Spock’s colleagues raise their heads from their tasks to each quirk an eyebrow in the direction of the door, which is why it escapes no one’s notice when T’Sal, one of the lead researchers, arrives to retrieve Spock.

Were Spock so inclined, he would allow himself a small measure of dismay at the tableau upon which he is introduced. Were Spock more human, he may have found humor in the sight: T’Pring impassive and straight-backed; the Commander closer than propriety allows, face red, gesticulating in great waves, and Sokel, uselessly attempting to intervene. Not for the first time Spock is led to question Sokel’s presence in these matters. That he is too weak-willed to dispute T’Pring is not unexpected; that he has been unable to wrangle a single human moreso.

It is T’Pring’s demeanor that forces Spock to intervene. To those not of her acquaintance she appears as impenetrable as ever, but Spock detects tension in the clench of her jaw and her hands, though apparently at ease, waver on the verge of becoming fists.

“Commander Kirk.” Spock interrupts before Kirk is able to put his hands on T’Pring, fearing the resulting scandal will end talks before they have had ample opportunity to begin - and also because he does not believe it beyond T’Pring’s capacity to execute a maneuver from _Suus Mahna_ and permanently incapacitate their esteemed guest. “Your presence here is most unexpected.”

On seeing Spock, the Commander takes a step back from T’Pring, though not enough to evade the radius of her displeasure. That Spock is able to discern this is all the more concerning.

“Spock,” the Commander says, both in acknowledgement and greeting. His voice echoes, still overly loud in the relative quiet of the atrium, though no longer at a shout. “Sokel was just giving me the tour.” He shuffles, as though unsure what to do with his hands. There is a gleam of moisture along his brow; his cheeks, though cooling, are red. The skin on his nose is peeling from over-exposure to the sun. He does not look well.

“The Academy was not on your list of sites for today,” Spock says, a fact he recalls from his perusal of Sokel’s itinerary for the week. The statement elicits a frown from Kirk; he opens his mouth to make some protest, but Spock speaks over him, unable to further ignore the signs of his fatigue. “Sokel, please procure some water for our guest.” He turns to T’Pring and T’Sal who, though removed by a few paces, had remained to observe the altercation should Spock’s intervention have proven insufficient. Spock was certain that though not within his line of sight, others within the Academy were also giving their close attention. “The Commander is fatigued—” Kirk gives an unfortunate yell in protest, “—I shall escort him back to his lodgings.”

He turns to intercept Sokel, taking the tumbler of water from him and wordlessly dismissing him. He passes it to Kirk and heads for the exit. Behind him Spock hears T’Pring step neatly away and towards the laboratories, her pace rapid but even. He tucks away his disappointment in her behavior. Though it is markedly un-Vulcan of him, it is common enough in relation to T’Pring that he thinks nothing of it.

“Now— hang on a minute!” the Commander exclaims, hurrying to catch up with him.

“It would be prudent to lower your voice, Commander, lest you draw further attention to yourself,” Spock says. “Please drink the water. You are dehydrated.” Beside him, Kirk is readying to contradict him again. “The temperatures on Vulcan far exceed those of Earth and any Federation starship. It falls on us, as your hosts, to ensure your well-being. We have been remiss,” he adds, fighting the inclination to look pointedly at Sokel. “It is apparent you have been overtaxed. Please allow me to ensure your safe return to your accommodations.”

Kirk seems on the verge of protesting, looking over his shoulder to where T’Pring has no doubt already disappeared from view. He wilts like a vine in the cold, his shoulders falling as though he has exhaled with force, the tension in his spine dissolving into a different kind of agitation. He takes a swig from the cup in his hand before looking down at it as though only now registering its presence, and, swirling its contents twice before bringing it to his mouth again, emptying it in two deep swallows. A drop escapes from the corner of his mouth; Kirk wipes it away with the back of his hand.

Spock forces himself to look away. If pressed, he could not say why.

The Commander turns to keep pace with Spock. “Sure,” he says, tone low with exhaustion. “Lead the way.”

  
  


They do not speak on the way back to the lodgings. Spock sticks close to the walls of each building they pass, keeping the Commander out from the worst of the midday sun. Kirk’s breathing is shallow but slow as he fights to pull oxygen carefully into his lungs. Spock had studied human anatomy before, as part of xenobiology. The human cardiovascular system was no doubt amply efficient on Earth, but it would take the Commander some time before he would feel at ease on Vulcan. Spock’s own mother appeared unaffected by the planet’s heavy gravity and thinner atmosphere, but she had been a resident of ShiKahr for over 20 years. Spock made note to ask his mother for instruction on easing the Commander’s discomfort. His mother would no doubt have relevant advice.

Mitigating the Commander’s battle with Vulcan’s environmental conditions seemed a simpler puzzle than that of his battle with T’Pring. While Spock had foreseen T’Pring’s reluctance to enter into the marriage, he had not supposed her so willful as to be negligent of their people’s greater need. Despite her lack of welcome, Spock cannot believe she would truly jeopardize Vulcan’s chances of a successful treaty with the Federation. Yes, it is true that the Federation is eager for Vulcan’s entry into its midst, but that does not negate that Vulcan, too, has much to gain from the coalition - more, it could be argued, bearing in mind Vulcan’s tactical weakness as was so recently exposed.

Spock realizes that in order to prevent a diplomatic incident, further intervention would be necessary on his part. Even if T’Pring could not be persuaded to concede to her responsibilities, Spock was confident that he could accelerate the Commander’s education in Vulcan culture and practices so as to at least make him a tolerable suitor. Yes, it is the only way. Spock will begin once he returns Kirk to his lodgings.

Despite Spock easing his pace for the Commander’s benefit, they soon arrive at the spaceport where planet-wide transporters are still active despite the embargo on travel from orbit. Spock purchases a beverage from an Andorian street vendor and passes it to Kirk before hailing an automated vee.

“What is this?” Kirk asks, eyeing the drink with suspicion. He breaks the seal with a crack, sniffing the contents dubiously before giving a small shrug and taking a sip. “Eugh,” he grimaces, “—why?”

“You are in need of electrolytes,” Spock answers. Kirk’s face contorts in a manner that Spock is unable to decipher. A further sign of dehydration, Spock surmises. Increasingly, it seems likely that the Commander had forgotten to take his dose of tri-ox compound. Spock would have to be more vigilant of his well-being. As he had suspected, it had been a mistake to leave Kirk to Sokel’s haphazard care.

“Is it supposed to taste like antimatter?” Kirk mutters.

“I am certain it does not—”

Kirk expels a huff of air, an act which causes him to cough. “No, never mind.” He smacks his lips in distaste, before tipping his head back to drink again. His face is incredibly mobile; Spock is not used to such displays.

He devotes his attention to boarding the vee and adjusting the environmental controls. By the time Kirk joins him, the interior of the vehicle is a few degrees shy of a Federation space shuttle. It is not possible to adjust the atmospheric conditions, but the cool air appears to be a comfort to the Commander, who settles into his seat with an audible sigh, tipping his head back against the seat with his eyes closed.

Satisfied that Kirk is secured onboard, Spock focuses his attention on the vee, boosting the anti-grav to gently encourage the vehicle into the air. Beside him, the Commander appears to be asleep. If Spock is especially careful with the journey back to the lodgings, there is no one to witness it.


	3. Chapter 3

The day after he’s escorted out of the VSA, Jim wakes to the insistent tones of the door chime being rung for the third or fourth time.

He stumbles off his pallet, sweat already pooling behind his knees, and staggers towards the door with heavy limbs. His mouth feels swollen, as though he’d had too much to drink the night before, and his muscles are sore. Daylight shines unfiltered through the windows. Squinting against the brightness, he opens the door to see Spock.

Well. Damn.

“Greetings, Commander,” Spock says, giving him a sweeping glance head to toe. Dressed in dark gray, there isn’t a hair out of place on the man. Jim realizes he’s only wearing shorts. “I woke you.”

“Someone had to,” Jim says, stepping out of Spock’s way. “Probably wasn’t going to be me. Come in.”

Spock steps forward and casts his scrutiny on Jim’s digs which, typical of any space Jim occupies for more than an hour, have the comfortably-disheveled look of being occupied by a human male. There are used hypos on the table, along with his PADD and some empty tumblers; his boots are in the gangway where he’d kicked them off the afternoon before, and— yes. That’s his shirt from yesterday, too. He’d come back from his confrontation at the VSA with a pounding headache and too much liquid sloshing about uncomfortably in his stomach, and had made an executive decision to call time on the day. He’d woken sometime after nightfall, near-enough crawled his way to the replicator, eaten half his meal, taken a dose of tri-ox, then returned to bed. He feels bruised all over.

He begins to clear away his dishes, returning them to the cycler. “Please, come in,” he calls over his shoulder. “Take a seat. What’s mine is yours.” There’s something about Spock’s silence that makes Jim eager to fill it. He’d known kids like that at the Academy and had wished they’d just take a breath and relax. Easier said than done, it turns out. “Would you like something to eat?”

Beckoned by the invitation, Spock seats himself at the head of the table, carefully moving aside Jim’s PADD and replacing it with five of his own. “I have already consumed the requisite number of calories needed this morning.” He looks across at Jim, giving another quick glance across his body. “Perhaps you would like to dress, Commander.”

Jim looks down at his own bare chest. Right. Sonic, clothes, breakfast, in that order.

  
  


When he emerges from the bathroom, there’s a replicated meal waiting for him, as well as another hypo - more tri-ox, Jim assumes - and a bottle of the same drink Spock had bought for him yesterday. Spock is still seated where he was before, working his way through what looks like incredibly dense text on one of the PADDs while he takes notes on another. If it weren’t for the appearance of breakfast, Jim would think he hadn’t moved at all.

Breakfast is some sort of grain, topped with a bright orange berry of some kind. It could be porridge and blueberries if the grain wasn’t almost black. Jim takes a tentative spoonful and winces. Is everything on this planet bitter? He eyes the unopened energy drink with a grimace. He wasn’t looking forward to choking that down.

If nothing else, Spock seems interested in keeping him alive.

“Your actions yesterday were ill-advised,” Spock says.

Away from the sharp sting of T’Pring’s immediate and cutting rejection, Jim feels a hot flush of embarrassment climb over his face again and covers by taking another bite of the grains. That, too, is ill-advised, and he tries to smother the flavor by biting into the berry - which throws something sharp into his airway causing him to choke. Spock reaches across the table to take the energy drink, wordlessly snapping the seal before passing it to Jim. He doesn’t even care that it tastes like dirt; he takes the bottle and swallows down the contents, swilling what’s left in his mouth to eradicate the last of—

“What was that?”

" _Sash-savas_ ,” Spock says, without elaborating further. “An acquired taste.”

Maybe he is trying to kill Jim after all.

Spock reaches over and turns the dish, revealing what look like flat, biscuit-like cakes. “You may find the _krei’la_ more to your liking.” When Jim goes to pick one up, Spock interrupts again. “It is not the custom among our people to eat with one’s hands. I have provided utensils for your use.”

Jim takes one of the rounds by hand and looks Spock in the eye when he takes a bite. Spock merely raises an eyebrow then returns to whatever’s occupying him on the PADDs.

“You will find you will have little chance of success if you continue to antagonize the Vulcans you come into contact with.”

“What if your people keep antagonizing me?” Jim asks. “What will that do for our blossoming alliance?”

He’s not actively trying to be a pain in the ass. In his defense it had taken him three days of traipsing around after Sokel before he’d broken. Three days split between playing tourist under a heat that was determined to smack him in the teeth before being escorted back to his empty digs where he spent the rest of the day trying to get Bones’ attention on the comm. (He’d checked in with him and Captain Garrovick his first night on-planet. Garrovick had told him to behave himself; Bones had told him not to fuck it up, and reminded him to take his hypos, which Jim figured was basically the same thing.) It wouldn’t have been so bad except the atmosphere continued to be punishing, and Jim had been saddled with the one Vulcan on the planet who couldn’t seem to make eye-contact with him. Three days - three! - of plodding from one red-stone building to another, led by a tour guide who made most Vulcans seem positively lively, and Jim had reached his limit.

No wonder then that when he’d seen T’Pring from a distance, he’d acted on impulse, ill-advised or not.

  
  


Technically, Jim wasn’t supposed to know what T’Pring looked like, but technicalities had never stopped him before, and honestly, what was Jim supposed to do - sit around sweating all day going bored out of his mind? He’d already called Bones three times, and been told to find some other way to occupy himself. His first night on Vulcan he’d read the materials put together by the Federation and learned the details of the negotiations, but been told in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t to make a nuisance of himself in that regard either.

It had made for dry, if not comprehensive, reading. The etiquette monkeys at the Federation could give the Vulcans a run for their money when it came to dispassion but the briefing did contain a few items of interest, including, at last, his fiancée’s name: T’Pring.

There wasn’t a lot more in that part of the pack: some information around her parentage and education, and no photograph. Not that it mattered to Jim. Once he had a name he’d set about looking up his bride-to-be. Vulcan encryptions were definitely more intricate than any he’d encountered at Starfleet - and wasn’t that telling - but the locks on the data banks at the Learning Center were simple enough to get through, even if they were complicated by not being in Standard. From there it was quick work to find out T’Pring’s speciality at the VSA and before long he’d found a holo of her in the personnel records.

His fiancée had near-porcelain skin, long, dark hair that was intricately coiled, and a severe gaze - beautiful even by Terran standards. It helped that she didn’t have Spock’s terrible haircut. Jim had looked up Spock as well, and noticed that while he too was impassive, there was a softness to him around the eyes that T’Pring didn’t share. Spock seemed relaxed where T’Pring looked as though she was on the verge of thinking violent and unkind thoughts. If there was one word her holo conjured to mind, it was _sharp_.

There were questions, he’d mused looking at the holo, that the briefing would never be able to answer. Questions like how T’Pring had been chosen for her role, and what she thought about it; whether she’d volunteered or had been called upon to perform a civic duty; whether the marriage was merely one of political importance, or if it could be stretched to include the personal— whether she could ever look at Jim and see a husband and not a shackle.

He’d carried those questions with him every night to sleep, looking at the holo before he turned in, taking the time to become familiar with the slant of her brow and the piercing look in her eye. He’d thought about the holo as Sokel led him between cultural sites in ShiKahr, thinking up new questions as he was led up one interminable hall and down another. He saw a sculpture of a le-matya and it made him think of T’Pring.

Jim’s not stupid. He understood that whatever he’d made of T’Pring from two sentences and a single holo would not match up to who she was, but he’d begun sowing seeds of hope long before he’d landed on Vulcan, and every detail fed the shoots. When he saw her approaching in somber robes, it had been instinct rather than intellect that had led him to call out her name, and instinct that had led him to run after her into what he later discovered was the atrium of the VSA.

He’d paid for that impulse soon enough. In the battle between expectation and reality, Jim had lost spectacularly. By the time Spock had arrived, it was all over. His fields were barren.

  
  


Spock, it turns out, is there to help with the planting. Or something. The metaphor is getting away from Jim. The long and short of it is that Spock seems fairly invested in Jim not completely ruining his marriage and has invited himself over as some kind of afterschool tutor. He doesn’t, however, ask Jim what had passed between him and T’Pring.

“It is to both our people’s benefit that your union be successful,” Spock says. “With this in mind I have devised a curriculum to educate you in the fundamentals of Vulcan philosophy, culture and history.” He indicates a different PADD for each topic, and passes one of the spares across to Jim. “This is for your use.”

“I have devised a schedule that will allow for maximum edification,” Spock continues, “while also taking into account your fitness and nutritional needs. I have estimated your rate of progress based on your scores at Starfleet Academy and your staff reviews from your Starfleet postings—”

“Wait, what?” Jim picks up the PADD and scrolls through. “Are these my high school transcripts? Where did you get these?”

“—and taking into account the optimal caloric intake, daily exercise and sleep cycle for a human male of your height, weight and age.” He pauses. “I have also added a daily reminder for your tri-ox dose. Tempting though it may be, please do not neglect this.”

Despite himself, Jim’s impressed. Kind of horrified, too, but definitely impressed. He scrolls through the neatly tabulated schedule with a frown. “This looks like a lot of ground to cover before the party.”

“You will not be in attendance at the gathering,” Spock says. “Following your acrimonious encounter with T’Pring, it was determined that a further meeting would not be favorable at this time.”

 _Acrimonious_. Jim mouths the word before the rest of the sentence catches up with him. “I was uninvited?” From a Vulcan shindig? New lows arise all the time. “Look, Spock, I don’t know how you do this over here—”

“That much is clear.”

“—but on Earth you don’t just go around marrying people you don’t know,” Jim says. “How am I supposed to get to know T’Pring if we never have the chance to speak to each other?”

Spock remains unmoved. “Following your actions yesterday I would argue T’Pring has come to know you too well.” He looks up from his PADD and fixes Jim with his unwavering gaze. “If you hope to impress upon her your suitability as a mate, I recommend following the plan I have outlined for you.”

Jim isn’t opposed to a little schooling; his transcripts can attest to that. But he’d rather be doing than thinking about doing any day. If that doesn’t sound like the Vulcan way, well, it isn’t, but he can admit, however reluctantly, that so far his own methods leave something to be desired. It makes sense to take advice from a Vulcan in Vulcan matters, right?

He pushes his half-empty dishes to one side and pulls the PADD closer. “So where do we start?”

  
  


They start by reading - or rather, Jim starts by reading. Spock is doing his own thing over at the head of the table, making notes and swiping through pages of text that Jim has no hope of understanding.

Spock’s curriculum is predictably logical. It covers the precepts of Surakian logic, an introduction to Golic, the basics of bonding and bond mates, and a few other topics like the Reformation and social mores. A lot of it is interesting, but it’s dry and detailed, and if it weren’t for Spock’s rigorous ordering of the days’ activities, Jim’s sure he would have given up already.

By the end of the week, they’ve settled into an agreeable routine. Spock arrives before daybreak, staring Jim into taking his tri-ox hypo and starting a regime of light exercise before the heat of the day really sinks in. Jim’s appalled to find how quickly he gets winded after starting a light jog, but Spock keeps a couple of paces ahead of him, so Jim sucks it up in an effort to soothe his wounded pride. He’d made the mistake of complaining that running was boring, and suffered for it when Spock altered their pace at intervals enough to leave him breathless and unable to voice further comments.

When they return to the lodgings, they take turns in the sonic before Spock begins his work day while Jim has breakfast and then picks up the day’s reading. They take regular breaks - or rather, Spock routinely interrupts Jim’s studying to encourage him to drink water or another of those disgusting energy drinks - then break for lunch a few hours in. On their second day Jim reads that Vulcans don’t typically engage in conversation over mealtimes, but Spock encourages Jim to discuss his reading. When Jim questions him, Spock only remarks that it’s logical to make the best use of their time.

As the sun hits its zenith, Spock opens the door to the makeshift garden and instructs the computers to increase shade on the windows. Jim, by this point nearly always tired of sitting at the table, takes his stool to sit in the shade of the room by the door, often losing time to hearing the bustle of ShiKahr carry across the walls. The afternoon passes this way until Spock, by whatever skill it is that allows him to know the time, stacks his PADDs and makes to leave. Jim passes the evenings alternately sitting in the garden or attempting to go for a walk in the nearby streets, though the heat often beats him back. He replicates a meal, then spends the hour before bed replying to comms from friends in Starfleet or digging into news from the VSA to work out what T’Pring is working on. His efforts don’t bear much fruit but he does learn that her team is researching something to do with temporal mechanics.

What’s less clear is what Spock is doing all day. He knows Spock also works at the VSA, but his personnel record doesn’t list him as being assigned to any specific team, and he’s spent every day since Jim’s ill-fated meeting with T’Pring at Jim’s unit. He keeps time like a ship’s computer, and he seems to retain information in the same way. The only meal he shares with Jim is lunch, and even then he picks the same dish every day, a soup of some kind that Jim had found bland and tasteless from the one mouthful he’d had. Jim had invited him to stay for dinner one evening, but Spock had declined, citing prior plans. Does Spock have friends? Do _Vulcans_ have friends? What does he do when he’s not babysitting Jim? Jim wonders how Spock can afford to spend so much of the day with him. He assumes he’s been given dispensation to do so but the truth ends up being more complicated.

“You quit your job? Why?”

Spock continues to look over his PADD. “I have not relinquished my role,” he corrects, “I merely requested reassignment within the team. My previous position required work under laboratory conditions.” He swipes across the PADD, then pauses to make an annotation. “As I am no longer able to devote time to the laboratory, I have been reassigned to review the data collected from our field tests.” Looking up, he catches Jim’s eye. “I am able to complete this work from any location, which allows me the freedom to monitor your progress.”

Data analysis doesn’t sound half as exciting as field experiments. Jim says as much.

“Vulcans do not pursue endeavors for the purpose of excitement.” Spock enunciates the word _excitement_ carefully, as though he doesn’t quite know how it fits in the mouth. “The results of our research must be categorized in order for us to measure the validity of our hypotheses. It is a necessary undertaking,” he adds, “which confers upon me a great deal of responsibility.”

After spending a week with Spock, Jim is beginning to recognize his moods. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he’s managed to insult Spock.

“I’m sorry,” Jim offers awkwardly. He hadn’t meant to imply Spock had been demoted, or settled for a lesser role in Jim’s favor. But wasn’t that what had happened? Spock made it sound like a straightforward reassignment, but Jim’s never met a scientist who doesn’t love to test their own work - surely the experiment’s the best part?

“There is no offense where none is taken,” says Spock, which would be fine if he didn’t look pinched. Jim can tell. He’s learning the signs.

“What are you researching, anyway?”

“It is unlikely to be of interest.” Definitely in a snit.

“Try me,” Jim says, getting up from his seat at the back door and crossing back over to the table. “I did a round or two in Engineering. I’m no Vulcan, but I think I can keep up.”

Spock considers Jim momentarily before setting down his PADD and clasping his hands in front of him. “We are pursuing three lines of investigation. The first is whether the methods used to extract energy from dilithium can be made more efficient. The second is whether there are elements or compounds that can be used to produce an equal or greater volume of energy as part of a warp propulsion system. The third is whether any means can be devised to exceed warp propulsion.”

“You’re trying to get more for your money,” Jim says. “I wouldn’t have pegged Vulcans for speed junkies.”

“While I do not understand the reference,” Spock says, “we do not pursue this research for its own sake but in the hope of reducing our dependence on dilithium. The less space travel relies on a single, finite resource, the less likely we are to have to engage in dispute over the materials.”

Jim gets it: Vulcans have been, in their own way, trying to solve the wider problem of Klingon aggression. If no one has to depend on dilithium any more, no one has to worry about the Klingons turning up to burn down any planet that has rich deposits of the stuff. It’s smart. Not a complete answer, obviously; Klingons will be Klingons, renewable energy sources or not, and it’s not likely that the Federation would want to share the spoils with their enemy. But there are solid foundations here for a different path to peace. Jim likes that about Vulcans. They can hit a problem square on as well as the next person, but square on looks a little different from down here.

“What have you got so far?” Jim asks.

“Commander,” Spock says, “while my research is no doubt of great interest, it will not help you further in your own education.”

“Come on, Spock.” Jim’s tired of reading about - what is it today? Oh, yes, _An Opposition to T’Mok’s Rebuttal of Sovad’s Comment on An Addendum to the_ — whatever. The title alone is enough to induce a coma. “I need a break. The human mind isn’t designed to study one topic from start to finish. A change is as a good as a rest.”

Spock tilts his head in consideration. He looks like a cat when he does it, brows drawn. It’s cute, if cute was a word easily applied to Vulcans. “A curious phrase,” he says, “and perhaps not without merit.” He passes his PADD to Jim.

It’s in Vulcan.

It’s in Vulcan, but math is math, and Jim can read what the graph is telling him even if he doesn’t know what it’s telling him about. “Whatever you tried last didn’t work, eh? The half-life of whatever this is doesn’t come anywhere close to dilithium in isolation, let alone when you introduce it to a warp core.” He catches Spock’s eyebrow on the rise. “What? I’m a Commander on a Federation starship, Spock - I understand the basics of warp propulsion.”

“Indeed.” says Spock. He pauses. “Does your eyesight trouble you? You are squinting.”

“Just trying to decipher what it says here,” says Jim.

“I do not understand how this can aid your translation.”

Jim shrugs. “It’s more a headspace thing.” He throws a smile in Spock’s direction. “I suppose you’d know all about that.”

“I assure you, Commander, that the space in my head is fully occupied by my brain,” Spock says.

“Don’t I know it,” Jim says. He pushes the PADD back across the table. “All right, walk me through this. I’ve already seen three things that aren’t right.”

Spock pulls the PADD towards him, clearing space for Jim to sit alongside him. “That is unlikely,” he says, and he means it. Poor man, Jim thinks. You’ve got no idea.


	4. Chapter 4

As is his daily habit, Spock visits the Vulcan Science Academy to review progress on the latest field tests and collect the newest results while also filing his day’s work. Today his notes include the Commander’s comments and, Spock admits, his corrections. Kirk has proven himself remarkably astute, and Spock is particularly content with the day’s advancements.

He encounters T’Pring on his exit, a not uncommon occurrence throughout the week, but notable in that she calls for his attention through the bond. It has been many years since T’Pring has accessed their bond; she has not had occasion to since she deemed his shielding adequate. As such, the tug is unexpected and brings Spock to an expedient halt. He does not comment on T’Pring’s methodology; nor does he refrain from raising an eyebrow on her approach. In some ways, she is much like the Commander - forceful, and difficult to evade.

T’Pring offers the _ta’al_ as she nears. “You have forgone your routine, Spock,” she says, coming to a stop in front of him. Her willingness to speak to Spock in plain view speaks to her discontent. The rarity of the display is drawing attention from their colleagues. Mindful of a need for privacy, Spock turns, clasping his hands behind his back, and inclines his head to the exit in invitation.

“You have no answer?” T’Pring asks, falling in step.

“You did not ask a question,” Spock replies.

“When I attended The Zephyr in anticipation of our usual meeting, you did not arrive,” says T’Pring, “nor did you send word of your absence. Why did you not attend?”

The Zephyr is an Andorian-owned teahouse situated on the boundary of mid- and lower ShiKahr in an area that is primarily inhabited by outworlders. The Commander’s lodgings are located in the boundary’s northernmost point while the space port is in the center; The Zephyr is to the south. T’Pring had suggested the location as an ideal meeting place, close enough to the Learning Center to reach on foot, but far enough to escape the scrutiny of their peers. Over the years she and Spock had tacitly agreed to continue to meet there once a week. Spock recalls the many occasions where he had attended in isolation, with no word from T’Pring to explain her absence. It was not in T’Pring’s habit to volunteer information she did not believe pertinent to a situation; Spock’s metric for pertinence was often irrelevant.

It has, however, been many years since they have broken their habit. Spock had not forgotten, but The Zephyr is in the opposite direction from home, and his time spent with the Commander, while productive, is nonetheless taxing. At the end of the day Spock is often aware of a pressing need for meditation.

Spock is reluctant to divulge his recent whereabouts to T’Pring, aware that she will not see the logic in his actions. And yet he is also reticent to hide his efforts, aware that it will be impossible to do so, and also that he must convince T’Pring of their necessity.

“You previously suggested my heritage would make me better suited to engaging with Commander Kirk,” Spock says. “I have since been given cause to agree with your conclusion.”

“So it is true,” T’Pring says. “You have been spending your time with the human.”

“Indeed.”

“To what end?” she asks.

Spock casts a sideways glance at T’Pring as they make their way out of the city center. He is unable to determine whether the root of her curiosity is subjective. “You do not believe it is to our benefit to engender positive cultural relations with the Federation’s representative?”

“Perhaps if he were an ambassador or a diplomatic attaché,” T’Pring says, “but the human is a military officer. If there is logic in deploying a soldier on a mission of peace, I am unable to discern it.”

“There is no better candidate for such a mission than a soldier,” Spock remarks. “Who better would know the true cost of conflict?” They pause to allow an air-vee to pass. “Nevertheless, Commander Kirk is not here to ratify the facts of the treaty. He is here as its instrument.”

“Am I also an instrument?” T’Pring asks.

“Do you consider yourself otherwise?” Spock asks in return.

Conversing with T’Pring is often a battle of wit, but more recently Spock has found it easier to maintain equilibrium if he is able to answer a question with a question. It is difficult to read a concession if none is given.

They approach the junction where they are soon to part ways. T’Pring will turn to ascend the low incline that leads to her family home and Spock will continue on his path for another three miles before his own is visible to him. As when they were children, they slow on the approach to the junction, making use of the protection afforded by neighboring buildings.

“Speak plainly,” T’Pring demands of him as she did when they were children. “Do you believe there is wisdom in the council’s decision to invoke a diplomatic bonding?”

“Wisdom, no,” Spock replies. “But merit? Perhaps.” He looks his one-time intended in the eye. “My opinion on this is irrelevant. The High Command has made their request of you.”

“It is a demand,” T’Pring says.

“Yes,” says Spock.

“I did not believe you would acquiesce to their decision so readily,” says T’Pring, returning his gaze with an even one of her own. Despite her demeanor, Spock can read the tension in the line of her spine, the uncompromisingly low set of her shoulders. He has never known her to be entirely peaceful. Impenetrable and imperturbable, yes, but never without some measure of reserve. He wonders if she finds rest within the privacy of her home, or whether there too she is forced to maintain a facade of forced serenity. Spock has not spoken to T’Pring’s parents since their arrival at Sarek’s home for _Telan t’Kanlar_ nearly fourteen years prior but like Spock’s foremother, T’Pring’s father is a member of the High Command. For children born to the high families of ShiKahr, rare is the respite from duty.

Spock is not unsympathetic to T’Pring’s plight; their _koon’ul_ was the subject of much debate among both their peers and their elders, and Spock’s hybrid status had conferred on his intended an implication of shame. He does not blame T’Pring for abandoning him to their peers’ judgement; nor does he seek to commend her for it. That her greatest wish may have been to sever her bond with Spock did not entail that she was pleased to break it in favor of a human, even when the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few - or the one.

" _Kaiidth_ ,” Spock says, gently. He can no more fight the council on this than he could the matter of his childhood ostracism. What is, is.

T’Pring looks away sharply, no longer willing to meet his eye. Spock can sense muted echoes of disappointment from her side of their bond, strong enough to cause alarm. He tightens his shields in deference to her privacy.

“Do you intend to fight the council’s decision?” Spock asks at last.

“Do you intend to forgo our future appointments?” asks T’Pring.

Spock shakes his head lightly; he does not. His meetings with T’Pring, although conducted in the absence of witnesses, had become a staple of life, and over the years had offered reassuring consistency where T’Pring herself could not. It occurs to him now that he was able to attend those meetings because he had no demands on his time from other acquaintances. Yet T’Pring, who despite her unfavorable match, was revered in their class for the pin-point sharpness of her logic and mind, and who had ample opportunity to neglect their meetings into their adulthood, had also made herself available.

As T’Pring is not known for her displays of sympathy, Spock can only conclude that she, too, has known loneliness.

She turns to depart. “T’Pring,” Spock says after her, “I make myself available to you in the event that you should need my assistance.”

T’Pring doesn’t look back at him when she answers. “The time for such offers has passed.”

He watches her climb diligently up the path that leads to her family home. In the distance Spock sees a figure emerge - too young to be T’Pring’s father, and too tall to be one of her brothers. The cut of his robes is familiar to Spock. Stonn, then, come to meet T’Pring for his own reasons. Spock watches Stonn join T’Pring, before they walk together out of view. Neither one of them looks back at him.

  
  


The road to Spock’s family home leads out of ShiKahr and into the Forge and so Spock rarely encounters other pedestrians. Since he was old enough to attend the Learning Center, Spock has meditated before dawn, broken fast at his mother’s bedside, then walked the five miles from his home to ShiKahr’s center. Their family has not owned a vee for many years, and in any case, should Sarek need to travel, a transport is sent for him.

As a child, Spock had found comfort in the solitude of his journey, one which gave him reprieve from the scrutiny of his peers in one direction and his father in the other. The walk to and from the city was the only time in Spock’s day where he was truly alone, and for all his loneliness, he could not help but welcome it. In the quiet of the plains, the only witness to Spock’s emotionalism was the sun in the sky. Now, as an adult, the journey offers a different respite: maintaining a steady pace allows Spock the ability to fall into the first stage of meditation, giving him time to examine the events of the day objectively.

Though he endeavors to consider the events of the day in full, again and again his thoughts return to the figure he saw awaiting T’Pring. Spock and Stonn’s paths do not often have occasion to cross. Growing up, Spock had been the source of much interest from his peers - more than he would have preferred. Spock understands that as children their logic was not sufficiently developed to understand the illogic of their baiting, but it is his Vulcan memory that prevents him from forgetting the taunts thrown his way. Stonn in particular enjoyed employing Spock’s mother in his barbs, a personal cruelty that Spock is unable to forgive. That T’Pring yet maintains an acquaintance is not surprising, nor does it bode well. As he approaches his home, Spock once again wonders at the council’s wisdom in choosing T’Pring to represent their people.

Spock is given cause, not for the first time, to consider what passed between Kirk and T’Pring in their ill-fated meeting at the VSA. By the time he had arrived, the Commander had been pleading with T’Pring for her consideration, but in all the commotion, Spock had not heard what T’Pring had said to Kirk to elicit such a fevered response. Nor has he requested the Commander divulge the specifics of the confrontation - he prefers, where possible, not to speak of T’Pring at all.

Yet he cannot help but remain curious as to what passed between the pair. T’Pring is not easily baited, though her calm veneer covers deep wells of discontent known to Spock only because of their bond, and even then, solely from lapses in childhood. Kirk, too, has proven himself genial and intelligent. Though he is easily excitable and prone to hyperbole in both mannerism and speech, his lack of circumspection at the VSA is uncharacteristic of the man Spock has come to know. Whatever occurred between him and T’Pring wounded his pride enough that he is reticent to speak of it. Whatever the insult, Spock can only hope it is assailable.

Removing his boots at the door, Spock enters his home and pauses, as is his daily custom. There is no susurrus of noise from the back of the house, indicating Sarek is not currently present. This is as expected: his father, as ambassador to Earth, is part of the negotiations with the Federation.

“Spock, is that you?” Amanda’s voice emerges from the comm by the door, slightly mechanical through the speaker.

Spock flicks the switch to reply. “I apologize for the delay in my return, Mother,” he says. “I was detained.”

“Do come up soon, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mother,” he replies before heading to the kitchen to procure their evening meal.

  
  


Sarek arrives home overnight. Following breakfast with his mother, Spock finds his father waiting for him in the kitchen.

“My son.”

“Father.”

“I have been informed you are supervising the human,” Sarek says. Spock is not surprised that the news has reached High Command; Spock himself had made no moves to conceal his behavior, and his request for reassignment would have traveled through many hands at the VSA. The Commander, too, may have shared the information. Spock had not given him cause to do otherwise.

“Yes, Father.” Spock returns the breakfast dishes to the replicator to be cleaned. It is a task that he has been charged with for almost all his life, but now sometimes the Commander will insist on claiming the responsibility after lunch. _Least I can do, Spock,_ he had said when Spock had inquired after the act. _After all, you cooked._ He had expressed amusement which had only grown when Spock had pointed out that he had merely made use of the replicator. The Commander was prone to laughter; it scattered from his mouth unexpectedly, suffusing his whole body with tension until he relaxed in the aftermath, content. Unused to such displays, Spock has been forced to look away.

“To what end?” Sarek asks.

“The Federation has not adequately prepared the Commander for the duty he is to undertake,” Spock answers. “I am instructing him on our culture and practices to prevent an inadvertent breach of etiquette.”

Sarek inclines his head in acknowledgment. “A worthy endeavor.” He does not mention Spock’s particular suitability for the task.

“Excuse me,” Spock says. “I must take my leave of you if I am to be punctual.”

Sarek stops him before he reaches the door. “Will you be in attendance at the gathering?”

“No, Father.” He neglects to tell his father that even had the Commander not been barred from proceedings, Spock himself had not received an invitation, as likely to be an act of mercy as it is one of indifference.

“Then I must inform you that the first round of talks has been completed to schedule. The High Command is satisfied with the proposed structure of proceedings and thus have committed to a deadline for the signing of the treaty.”

Spock mulls over this information. “A date has been chosen for the bonding?”

“Indeed,” Sarek confirms. “We aspire to conclude negotiations by new year. There is to be another gathering before the seasonal recess. We project this will mark the midpoint of the talks. The council has agreed this would be the appropriate time for T’Pring and Commander Kirk to begin their formal courtship.”

The seasonal recess commences in conjunction with _yonuk mazhiv_ , Vulcan’s storm season. There is adequate time to prepare Kirk.

“Does the council intend to implement a preliminary bond?” There is logic in establishing the foundations as soon as possible to allow Kirk’s mind time to adapt. The experience of a meld can be unsettling for a member of a psi-null species. Spock recalls his own mother’s recollection of her first meld; shallow but unusual in the course of her life. She had reported suffering cephalgia afterwards and although she had soon adapted, it remained true that the transition had not been as easy as if she had been a Vulcan.

This was true of many things in his mother’s life.

“A decision has yet to be made,” Sarek says. He stands, indicating the matter is concluded. “I have detained you. I shall arrange for a transport to convey you to the city.”

“There is no need, Father,” Spock declines. “I will recover the time with ease.”

“Very well, my son.” In a curiously human gesture, he looks over his shoulder back into the house, although it is impossible to view Amanda from where he stands. “Your mother is well?” It is a question Sarek has asked Spock many times. Spock is uncertain as to why - after he departs, Sarek will make tea for himself and his wife before climbing the stairs to where she is resting and ascertain her state for himself. And yet should Sarek and Spock cross paths before the latter departs for ShiKahr in the morning, Sarek will ask this of his son.

“She is well,” Spock answers, though Sarek must know this already. Were she not, Spock and Sarek would not be passing time in the sharing of news. “I bid you farewell, Father.”

He leaves his father to observe his private rituals, heading to the road to partake in his own.

  
  


“So, how much time does that buy me?” Kirk is sitting on the table, adjacent to Spock, picking at his breakfast. In the past few days he has pointedly produced a morning meal not previously programmed in the replicator’s bank of known recipes, suffusing the air with a desire for Spock to inquire after the change - a desire to which Spock does not concede, having wit enough to be able to surmise that Jim has reprogrammed the machine in some way.

“The recess will commence in seven weeks,” Spock says. “To allow the assembly sufficient time to return to their homes prior to _yonuk mazhiv_ , the formal gathering will be scheduled at the end of the previous week.”

Jim nods absently. His breakfast remains unfinished though he picks at the fruit that adorns the dish, fingers sticky with syrup. He licks his fingers at intervals. Spock looks away. They have discussed the etiquette of using utensils for meals, but Kirk has so far been unwilling to expend the effort beyond where it is necessary. “And then everyone battens down the hatches for the storm season. Another eleven or twelve weeks.”

“Approximately so,” Spock replies, “though we will not be housebound for the duration. It is merely the height of the season where it will become necessary to secure one’s self in an appropriately protected location.” Recalling the previous summer, he adds, “It would be unwise to venture out during this time, but the shielding on this property will provide adequate cover.”

"’Adequate’?” Kirk parrots. “Hardly a ringing endorsement.” He finally sets down his plate, wiping his fingers on his trouser legs to clean them. “What happens at the gathering?” His eyes widen fractionally before he gathers himself again. “There’s not going to be dancing, is there?”

“Vulcans do not dance,” Spock says. The Commander notices his vigorous wiping has left a stain on his trousers and licks his finger before pulling the fabric tight and rubbing against the residue further. The stain spreads. Spock considers whether he ought to retrieve a towel. “The gathering will be an opportunity for members of the assembly to meet informally under the banner of celebrating your betrothal. You will be formally introduced to T’Pring and members of her family. The precise order of events has yet to be determined.”

It is likely that the elders will bring a healer to instigate a preliminary bond to corroborate the _koon’ul_. As the Commander will not undergo the _pon farr_ , they are unlikely to seek an assessment of the couple’s mental compatibility, but a healer will be on hand to lead them through a shallow meld. Spock is uncertain whether another will be needed in advance to sever his own bond with T’Pring.

Relinquishing his efforts against the mark on his clothes, Kirk slides from the table, gathering his dishes and Spock’s empty teacup on his way to the replicator. Once they are disposed of, he crosses his arms, leaning his shoulder against the wall, feet crossed at the ankle. The stance looks uncomfortable to Spock, too practiced to be casual. “So then we’re betrothed and hiding out from the storms. Then what? Is it a long engagement? When’s the wedding?”

“As you know, the talks are scheduled to continue following the recess. I have been informed that the delegates will strive to conclude by the end of the calendar year. The bonding will follow the signing of any agreement at the commencement of the new year.” Spock watches as Kirk contemplates that information. He is beginning to comprehend some of the many configurations of his face. A furrow in his brow indicates concentration and also displeasure; that his eyes look up suggest he is performing a calculation.

Spock’s theory is borne out when Kirk answers, “So another twelve-to-fourteen weeks after the storm season, which I suppose brings us to your winter?”

“Seasons on Vulcan do not correspond directly with those on Earth. However, it is more accurately a spring.”

“Sure,” Kirk says, rolling his shoulders as though literally throwing off the note. He has voiced a preference for generalities where Spock prefers specifics; it is not the first time he has cast off what he terms Spock’s ’natural pedantry’. “And then the bonding is the wedding?”

“It is one part of the proceedings, yes.” It is, in fact, the first of three ceremonies - the High Command will accept no treaty that is not endorsed by a _kal’i’farr_ , and have stated that they consider this, rather than the signing, to be their acceptance of any stated alliance with the Federation. There is some logic at work here, but Spock is hard-pressed to locate it. He can only assume that the High Command is in possession of facts that he himself is not. The signing will follow directly from the bonding - it is the agreement that holds weight in the Federation - and in the evening there is to be a Terran ceremony which is a mere formality for all sides, and an opportunity for celebration.

Kirk fidgets, drawing Spock’s attention once more. His eyes dart about the room, landing on Spock’s face once or twice before flitting away again. Uncharacteristic hesitance battling with Kirk’s usual impulsivity. “I heard—” he cuts himself off, levering upright, rubbing one hand against the back of his head, ducking so as to not meet Spock’s eye. Suddenly Kirk calms, shoulders and spine straightening, and moves with purpose to seat himself next to Spock, opposite where he usually begins his day. He attempts a sprawl, as though he has forgotten he is not in a chair, and on realizing, overbalances on the stool, hands landing heavily on the table. Despite his discomfort, he seems steeled to meet Spock’s eye. Spock notes his determination. “This bond, it’s a mental link, yes? You don’t usually form one outside a mating?”

Kirk is more resourceful than Spock has given him credit. That he has been accessing Vulcan databases is not a surprise; Spock had expected as much from a man of Kirk’s resources and education. That he has managed to unearth details of the _pon farr_ is highly irregular. Spock straightens involuntarily; it brings to his attention his previous state of repose.

“That is not a subject for discussion, Commander,” Spock says. “It is time to begin your reading.”

“Spock—”

But Spock is unwilling to be moved in this matter. Whatever Kirk has discovered will have to be his primary source on the matter. Spock is, in many ways, untypical of his people, but in this regard he is indistinguishable from them: he will not discuss his people’s shame. He collects his PADD and begins the day’s work. Beside him, Kirk sighs, then reaches across the table to retrieve his own.

The morning passes quietly.


	5. Chapter 5

Spock may have thought his stubborn silence on bonding and mating would be enough to draw the conversation to a close, but he doesn’t know Jim that well, so it’s an easy mistake to make. What Spock considers a conclusion, Jim only considers a recess. He’ll learn sooner or later.

Jim’s been on Vulcan for over a month now, and while it’s still unbearably hot, he’s beginning to adjust to the atmo. Their morning runs no longer leave him as winded as before, though Spock continues to set a punishing pace, and Kirk finds it easy enough to keep talking while they jog.

The day after the first time Jim manages to hold a conversation all their way through their route, Spock informs him they won’t be running their full circuit that day, and instead leads him to what turns out to be an outdoor gymnasium of sorts. The sun has yet to emerge from beyond the horizon, but there’s enough light to see by. Spock leads him to a circle of dark sand, bordered by stones.

Jim can’t help himself; he grins. “Did you bring me here to dance, Spock?” He rolls his shoulders to loosen up the muscle. This’ll be good.

“Negative. Your records indicate you have training in advanced hand-to-hand combat,” Spock says, hands clasped behind his back in a kind of parade rest. “As your respiratory system has begun to adapt to our atmosphere, I believe you will now be able to engage in more strenuous forms of exercise.”

“Damn right.” Jim cracks his knuckles obnoxiously. He can’t help it; he’s excited. He’s always enjoyed a good skirmish, and it’s been a while since he’s had an opponent. On the Farragut he’d square off against the security team when he could, but like him they were all trained at the Academy. There’s some variation in style between people, but not much. It’ll be good to break himself on someone new.

He kicks off his shoes and steps into the cleared space to stretch. The air is still relatively clear; warm, but not bursting with the day’s heat. It reminds him of summer mornings in Iowa, everything a little dusty with dew. There’s no moisture to be found in ShiKahr - every drop is jealously guarded - but there’s something resembling a breeze stirring the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Jim watches Spock remove his shoes and line them up neatly outside the circle before stepping neatly over the stones to join him. He looks sleek and dangerous, dressed in a black long-sleeved tunic and leggings. There’s not a lick of sweat on him.

Spock eyes him carefully in return. His gaze is unflinching and implacable.

“Begin.”

  
  


The third time Jim finds himself on his back, he begins to think maybe Spock is punishing him. He takes a moment to catch his breath, pushing up to rest on his elbows. “What is that?”

“It is called _Suus Mahna_ ,” Spock says. He’s still standing, obviously. “It is a martial practice that is used for personal defense.” From where Jim’s seated, Spock’s all long lines and sharp angles. He wonders, a little vindictively, what it would take to mess him up a bit, just show some wear and tear for once. He thinks it would be good for him.

Pushing himself up and forward to a crouch, he makes as though to stand then launches himself forward, tackling Spock at the knees. They both go down - Jim scrambles for purchase, legs kicked out for leverage against the ground, but he feels Spock move decisively, feet braced firmly, a hand on Jim’s shoulder, and he rolls, using the advantage of his weight and strength to pin Jim. It’s the work of a few seconds before Jim is stuck. He tries to buck, but Spock has him trapped.

“Yield.”

“No.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. This close, Jim can count his eyelashes.

“Want to talk about mating now?”

That works better than any attack. Spock loosens his hold on Jim’s shoulder, and Jim takes the opening, pushes up to dislodge him. It works for a moment - he gets his hands on Spock’s shoulders, but Spock knocks his hands aside, recovering quickly, and uses the momentum to roll him over, redistributing his weight and pulling Jim’s arm tight against his back.

“I yield— I yield!”

The weight from the back of his knees eases as Spock stands. Jim spits sand from his mouth, taking long pulls of air into his lungs. Damn. When he finally gets to his feet, Spock is putting his shoes back on. Jim wipes a hand across his mouth. He feels sore and tested, but in a good way, adrenaline cleaning away the light burn of embarrassment at being taken down so easily. The sun is coming up; if he hadn’t been sweating already he’d soon start.

Spock brings him his shoes and a bottle of the energy drink. It’s the first Jim’s seen it - where had Spock been hiding it?

“We should return to the lodgings,” Spock says, passing Jim the bottle. “You are fatigued.”

Jim snorts at the understatement. He’s getting used to the energy drinks, thick and sort of tasteless but with that faint stickiness he associates with artificial sweeteners. If this is what passes for sweet on Vulcan, he’s in trouble.

He feels Spock tense more than he sees it - something in the Vulcan’s body tightens, though he doesn’t move or step away. A moment later, Jim hears steps behind him. He turns to see two new figures turn the corner into the clearing. Both are Vulcan, dressed similarly to Spock, and of a similar height, though one has considerably rounder features than Jim has come to expect. They stop when they see Spock and Jim.

Jim raises his hand in a wave. “Good morning.”

“We must depart,” Spock says. “We have overrun our time.”

That doesn’t sound right to Jim - Spock is meticulous at keeping time. He doesn’t think he’s been late to anything in his life; he was probably born on the exact date the doctors predicted. But unlike Spock, Jim can read between the lines. They’ve overstayed their welcome. It’s time to go.

They head for the exit, Spock nodding to the newcomers in acknowledgement. They don’t nod back. As Jim and Spock pass, one of them - the leaner of the two - calls out in Golic.

Spock stops and turns, hands coming to rest behind his back as is his habit. He replies quietly.

The other Vulcan says something else in a pointed monotone; Spock replies flatly. Jim can only make out a handful of words (one of them is _human_ , which bodes well) but he can see that Spock is not at ease, even if his face is devoid of expression. The Vulcan that’s challenging him - and it is a challenge, Jim can see that now, reading confrontation in the way he’s standing, and how he’d waited for Spock to pass close by before speaking - is as still as stone. Neither he nor his companion acknowledge Jim.

“That is for the High Command to decide,” Spock says, suddenly breaking into Standard. “Gentlemen.” He inclines his head again in farewell, before turning and striding out into the street. Jim nearly trips over his own feet trying to catch up.

“Spock— hey now, wait a minute,” Jim says, trying not to raise his voice. It’s early but there are still Vulcans milling about and after the VSA Jim knows better than to call out. “Some of us can’t breathe, remember?”

Spock comes to an abrupt halt, waiting while Jim comes level with him, before continuing on, pace a little gentler but still in haste. He doesn’t look in Jim’s direction.

“What was that about?” Jim asks quietly.

“It is of no consequence,” Spock answers. There is a blankness to him that tells Jim he’s fighting strong undercurrents. Whatever just happened had affected him more than he wanted to admit. Jim regrets his earlier wish; he doesn’t like what Spock looks like when he’s worn. He wants to defend against it.

He knows Spock well enough that he won’t be pressed on the matter, whatever Jim says, so he straightens up instead, looking ahead.

“Race you back?”

Before Spock can answer, Jim darts off. “First one back wins!”

  
  


Spock wins, of course.

Breathless and aching, Jim claims the sonics first for once. The happy feeling of being well-used has been overtaken by flat-out exhaustion, and he turns the sonics up a notch, relishing how the waves beat over his skin. It’s not a shower, but it’ll do for now. He hangs his head as the cycle draws back up his body, wondering about the two Vulcans in the park.

Jim’s seen a number of Vulcans out and about, especially on his early sightseeing tours with Sokel. Jim had assumed that friendship was anathema to Vulcans, but unless the pair today were a couple - for some reason, Jim thinks not - then Jim was mistaken. It makes him wonder where Spock’s friends are, and how he can afford to spend so much time with Jim.

Vulcan doesn’t really have a concept of weekends; it’s not logical to them when they know to build in sufficient periods of rest into their days. But it means they have no formal downtime as such, so Jim doesn’t know if Spock meets other people when he’s not babysitting him, or if Jim takes up so much time that there’s people out there he’s neglecting. After all, Spock arrives before dawn and works through to the evening. It doesn’t leave much time for anything else.

He also wonders whether the Vulcans they encountered were annoyed at Spock for hanging out with Jim. He hadn’t thought too much about what the Vulcan population thought about the proposed treaty - he’d assumed after the attack on ShiKahr that people would be gung-ho over an alliance, but he knows all too well how a tragedy can also insulate a community, fear causing them to reject outside advances. He’s not sure that Vulcans would confess to feeling anything as banal as fear, but after so much time by themselves, maybe the attack had been the final straw for some of them - confirmation that mixing with outside influences only brings trouble.

Jim wonders if Spock is taking a risk spending every day with him.

Probably not. Right?

He’s forgotten to bring his clothes to the fresher again, and he’s not thrilled about putting his sweat-soaked workout gear back on. Spock’s outside somewhere, patiently waiting his turn, no doubt already having prepared breakfast, and Jim’s been in here long enough. Jim’s not shy, but he’s never seen Spock with anything but his hands and ankles uncovered, and he doesn’t want to offend him. In the end he decides locker room rules apply and he makes a break for his room.

Jim palms the lock on the door and steps out, soiled clothes under his arm and walks straight into Spock. “Oh, ah, sorry—” he tries to take a step back and knocks into the wall behind him. Spock has fallen into his parade rest.

“Commander.”

“Fresher’s free,” he says unnecessarily.

“Indeed.” Spock cocks a surprisingly wry eyebrow, and steps out of Jim’s way.

Jim flushes violently under the scrutiny, feeling all his blood run south, but he pushes it off, steeling himself. “Yes, well,” he waves a hand distractedly, “as you were.” He forces himself to walk to his room sedately. Behind him he hears the fresher door slide open then close again. He exhales heavily in relief, then looks down at himself and laughs. ’Locker room rules’. He’d played himself.

  
  


Jim tries again at lunch. “I know your mating rituals have nothing to do with me, but I need you to tell me about Vulcan bonding.”

“Commander—”

“Jim,” he says, cutting Spock off. “My name is Jim. If we’re going to be in close quarters for the better part of a year, the least you can do is call me by my name.”

“Very well,” says Spock. Jim looks at him expectantly - his shoulders fall in the closest thing like a sigh Jim’s seen on him. “The matter of bonding is a private one, not much discussed even among our own people. To share such knowledge with an outworlder—”

“Spock,” Jim interrupts again. “If I have to go through it shouldn’t I be prepared for what it entails?” He runs a hand through his hair. “Come on. Bonding 101, let’s go.”

He watches Spock decide how much he’s going to say. It’s weird; not a lot happens on Spock’s face, but Jim’s finding it’s easier and easier to read him with every passing day. Little things like the flattening of his features, the pursing of his lips. The signs are there once Jim knows what to look for.

Spock is eating soup for lunch. He puts down his spoon and clasps his hands in his lap. Jim straightens - he knows what comes next: The Lecture.

“As you know, Vulcans are a telepathic species. Unlike Betazoids, our psionic capability can only be accessed via touch except in cases where a link is formed between two minds. The link sustains our psionic capabilities over a distance. Many of these bonds are familial and formed during infancy. Indeed, I have a bond with my parents and living forebearers.”

“It’s spontaneous?” Jim asks.

“No. During gestation, the developing fetus reaches for and joins with its parents’ minds. As an infant, the child will be encouraged to meld with its parents and close relatives and in this way strengthen both their control and the familial bonds. Through my father I am able to detect our many relations.”

Jim notices Spock doesn’t mention his mother, but something about his tone doesn’t allow for questions.

“We are also taught from a young age to shield our minds from others out of courtesy,” Spock adds, “and also in deference to others’ privacy. This is in part why Vulcans embrace logic. Strong emotions have a greater psionic echo.”

Jim thinks about this for a moment, chewing on a root vegetable that tastes like carrot, but definitely isn’t. “You said ’in most cases’.”

Spock inclines his head in agreement. “It is possible for two minds to join without instigating a bond. The practice is known as a mind meld and can be performed by Vulcans with both psionic and psi-null species.” He looks at Jim carefully. “A Vulcan marriage is forged through the creation of a bond between the minds of the affianced. At the _kal’i’farr_ , a healer will be present to join your mind with T’Pring’s. The bond will allow for the passing of emotions between you both even when you are not touching. It is likely this will be easier for T’Pring than you as her psionic capabilities are stronger.”

Jim feels a spike of anxiety. “She’ll be able to read my thoughts?”

“She would not do so without your consent,” Spock assures him. “Privacy is paramount to a Vulcan. Furthermore, you will be taught to shield, for both your sakes.”

That explains why the Vulcans had insisted on a marriage to seal the alliance, Jim thinks. A bond holds a lot more weight than a signature. He winces - it’s basically a lobotomy.

“Can it be undone?” Jim asks.

Spock pauses. “A bond may be rescinded, with the assistance of a healer. However,” he adds, “it will cause both parties significant distress. I am uncertain the effect it can have on a psi-null species.” He looks at Jim head-on, determined to hold his gaze. “Commander - Jim - it is unlikely that you will wish to break the bond. T’Pring will not harm you; it is an unspeakable crime to harm one’s bondmate. The _tel_ is much honored among my people - it is a sacred thing.”

Jim thinks about his meeting with T’Pring at the VSA and he wonders if she wants to have access to a messy human’s brain 24/7. On the one hand it sounds like she’s likely to ignore him. On the other, it sounds, well. Lonely. Not for the first time Jim wonders whether this thing is a huge mistake.

“All Vulcan marriages have a bond?” he asks at last, mulling over the new information.

“Yes,” says Spock. “It is a necessity.”

Jim raises his eyebrows at that. He aims for just one, but the other follows.

Spock looks away for the first time in the conversation. He looks outside to the garden, but his focus is elsewhere. “I believe your research has already led you to the matter of mating,” he says at last.

Jim forces himself to play it cool. He spreads his hands in a shrug, but he can feel his pulse accelerate. He wonders if it’s the same for Spock too. “A little,” he says. “There wasn’t much to be found. I know it has something to do with bonding.” He looks down at the table. “I know your people don’t like to talk about it.”

“Quite.” Spock’s reply is succinct but not biting. “A bond is the only remedy for what ails a Vulcan during the mating… frenzy.” He doesn’t elaborate; Jim doesn’t ask him to.

“How does someone choose—” He cuts himself off, trying to be respectful, but needing to know all the same. “I mean, it sounds important. I’d assume you have to be fairly careful when you’re picking someone to bond with.” More careful than the Federation had been in picking Jim, he thinks.

Spock’s answer surprises him. “The choice is made by our parents. A preliminary bond is established in childhood - more than a betrothal, less than a marriage.” He speaks softly. “In this way the intended _telsu_ can come to know one another’s minds so that when called upon they may know one another and find refuge in the knowing.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, but Jim’s fairly sure he knows where to start. “Wait, does that mean T’Pring has a, a what, a _telsu_ —” he knows he’s saying that wrong. “—Do you?”

“The term is _kugalsu_ ,” Spock says, answering the one question Jim hadn’t asked out loud. “It is commensurate with the Standard term ’fiancé’.”

“Right, but—” Jim waves his hand, “you have one? A kug— whatever?”

" _Kugalsu_ , yes. I do.”

Jim can feel himself spiralling. “What? How come I’ve never met her? Her? Him. Them?”

Spock closes his eyes briefly. It’s odd to see on him, but not unfamiliar; it’s a response Jim’s evoked in enough people in his life. Reminds him of Bones a little, which makes his chest hurt. He needs to call Bones soon; it’s been a few days. Text comms aren’t cutting it.

The idea that Spock’s been engaged all this time and never mentioned it kind of rankles, like he’s been holding out on Jim, which is ridiculous. Jim knows things about him, sure - that like every other Vulcan he doesn’t eat meat and doesn’t drink alcohol, that he’s whip smart and would probably blow the curve at Starfleet. He knows Spock feels the cold the way Jim feels the heat, and that he can sit for hours and work on a single problem without needing to rest or take a break. Those are all… something. But not this. Jim had thought they were friends, kind of. Not Bones-grade, sure, but more than passing acquaintances. How could he not know that Spock’s engaged? They could have been bonding - ha! - all this time.

Then Spock says: “You have met.”

“No,” says Jim, “I think I’d remember if you introduced me to your fiancée.”

“I did not have occasion to introduce you,” Spock says. “You managed well enough on your own.”

Jim is not slow-witted. He’s met maybe five Vulcans the whole time he’s been here. His memory’s just fine. He vaguely remembers another woman at the VSA, someone older. Perhaps that’s who Spock means?

He looks at Spock. Spock blinks. No, Jim’s luck isn’t that good.

“You have got to be kidding me. This whole time—” he stabs at the table with his finger “—this _whole time_ I’ve been thinking about— what—” He can’t form the words. “Tell me you’re joking.”

Spock ducks his head, tellingly. “Vulcans do not—”

“Tell me,” Jim talks over him, “you don’t mean T’Pring, Spock. I need to hear it out loud. Just once, come on.”

“I am unable to lie,” Spock says.

Jim walks out.

  
  


He doesn’t go far. He’d walked out without grabbing his PADD or anything to cover his head from the sun - that’ll bite him later, but right now he can’t think about that. He just couldn’t sit opposite Spock for another minute listening to him talk about how Jim was going to marry his fiancée. Maybe that kind of thing flies here on Vulcan, but Jim is still very much human, and it doesn’t work for him.

How can Spock sit there every day and help the man who is going to marry his wife? And he has been helping Jim - that much is clear. No one who’s going to sabotage a marriage would spend hours every day quizzing Jim on the specifics of his reading, making sure he’s exercising, eating, and taking his tri-ox on time. Why do all that just to set him up for a fall? It’s not efficient. It’s not _Vulcan_.

He’s still mulling over everything he’s learned when he turns the corner onto a market. The colors - the sounds, the smells - stop him in his tracks. It’s more people in one place than he’s seen in some time. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been cooped up in his digs. It hadn’t felt so bad, having just Spock for company but now that he sees the small crowd, his heart lifts. Spock’s good people - dry, and studious, and frustratingly opaque sometimes, but essentially good people - but Jim’s missed this, the bustle of people, the sheer overwhelming noise and chaos of it all.

He wanders slowly through, making the most of the overlapping canopies where the aisles close up and he has to think quick to stop from knocking into people or stalls, always one or the other within touching distance. There’s not that many Vulcans at this end - it looks like maybe it’s a tourist attraction, street vendors selling the alpha-quadrant equivalent of snow globes and key chains. He finds a Tellurite selling models of various spacecraft and he wishes he had some credit on him - there’s a miniature version of a Constitution-class heavy cruiser that he wants to pick up. Hopefully the market will be there another day.

There’s a Skrillex selling street food, some fruit vendors, and various craftspeople - wooden sculptures and metal figurines, trinkets and fabrics. Where the stalls widen out, there are Vulcans selling herbs and stones, and what looks like some kind of mat.

“Commander!” A loud voice cuts through the ambient noise of the crowd, pointed and distracting. Several people turn to look as a slightly portly human pushes his way through the throng. He’s carrying a red parasol, and wearing a suit that closely resembles, but isn’t, Starfleet’s dress uniform. The fabric bunches above his belly, parting slightly between the fastenings, but the skin around his neck gives off the impression he’s lost a lot of weight recently. “Commander Kirk, isn’t it?” he says as he nears.

“It is,” Jim says, coming down a few decibels in the hope of procuring the same from this stranger who knows his name. “Can I help you?”

“It’s a pleasure, truly a pleasure,” the man says, reaching out before Jim can stop him and shaking his hand vigorously. Jim can feel the stares of the Vulcans around him, and he tries to disengage, but the man’s grip is remarkably firm. “You’re just the fellow I’ve been looking for.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” Jim says, falling back on formalities. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Oh, of course,” says the stranger, “Winston Aberforth.” He says it as though it ought to mean something to Jim, and while Jim’s sure he recognizes the name, it’s not enough to jog his memory. He covers by retrieving his hand and turning towards the more populated end of the market, drawing his new companion away with a hand on his back.

“A pleasure, Mr. Aberforth.” He gently steers him out of the path of a diminutive Erosian that’s dragging along a sack of grains. “How can I help?”

“Not here,” Aberforth says. “Come along. I know somewhere more civilized.”

  
  


Aberforth takes him ably through the market to the far side where there are tables set up under a glass awning. There are environmental controls hidden somewhere, and the glass is shaded on the inside. Jim feels his shirt sticking to his back, the sweat on his neck cooling rapidly now they’re out of the sun. Aberforth flags down a waiter and orders refreshments before guiding Jim to a table.

“Blasted heat,” he mutters as he sits. “Some days I make the mistake of stepping outside the Chambers for a change of air and I always regret it. Always the slight suspicion I might dissolve.”

Oh god, Jim thinks, he’s part of the Federal delegation. That’s where he knows the name - from the briefing.

“Ah, yes,” Aberforth says, catching the dawning recognition on Jim’s face, “caught up, did you? Thought you looked a mite uncertain out there. Well, it’s true. The briefing was overlong - can’t be helped in a bureaucracy, I’m sure you know - and, well. Council of Peers not exactly what you’d be most interested in, eh?”

Aberforth has an interjectory manner to him - stumbling over Jim’s questions before he’s had a chance to form them, let alone voice them. Jim realizes he’s enjoying himself. He hasn’t heard so many subordinate clauses in a sentence in weeks. Bones would love him.

The waitstaff bring out their drinks, some sort of iced tea, too sweet to be something native. Jim winces when he takes his first sip; the aftertaste is familiarly bitter. _Sash-savas_ , he surmises.

“Wondering why I dragged you over here?” Aberforth asks. “You looked a little lost out there, if you don’t mind my saying. And, well, I have to tell you, that was some damn fine stupidity you pulled last month.”

He’s talking about Jim’s trip to the VSA. Jim opens his mouth to offer his excuses, but Aberforth waves him off.

“No, no, bound to happen with this lot,” he says, holding his own glass in front of him, already half-empty. “Better it happened then than at the party. Fewer holographers, you know. But all right now, listen here.” He settles heavily on the table, with the bearing of a much larger man. Jim finds himself leaning forward as well. “You’re a smart boy - you need to buck up and act like it. These negotiations aren’t going as well as they could be. Obviously Onadera—” he pauses, gesticulating widely, “—you know Onadera Marchese? Head of the delegation? Onadera is doing admirably in distinctly uncomfortable circumstances, but _you—_ ” here, he jabs the air in front of Jim’s chest, “—you need to be doing your part.”

Jim tries not to take umbrage at the idea that he hasn’t been doing everything he can to be the ’Fleet’s poster boy, but he recalls the scene in the VSA and backs down. “What would you like me to do?” he asks instead.

“This agreement,” Aberforth says, shaking his head sadly, “there’s a lot at stake. You’re a good sort so I know you know this already. These Vulcans have some funny ideas about which way up the world is, but they’re not stupid either. Condescending and snide, but not stupid, oh no.” He wags a finger twice, sharp little motions that distract Jim.

“I don’t care if I have to hold their hands to do it, but they are going to sign that bloody agreement. Mayhaps that’s impolitic, but it’s the truth. Those stubborn know-it-alls don’t seem to understand that they’re at risk out here, even after all that nonsense with the Klingons. I’m saying,” he says, holding Jim’s eye, “it’s a fight, and I’d rather only have it on one front, thank you very much. You’re a pretty boy. Take the girl some flowers and get this thing back on track. I want everything airtight.”

He looks at Jim then, if only just seeing him properly. “What the hell have you been doing with yourself, anyway? You’re positively pale. Don’t you get out and about? Honestly, man, you can’t spend the next nine months cooped up in that hovel they gave you. Enough to make a man go mad.”

  
  


Jim reaches his apartment as Spock is preparing to leave. He’s late going; Jim is sunburnt.

“You neglected to use lotion,” Spock says. “I shall bring a dermal regenerator tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Jim says, haunting the doorway. “Look, Spock—” He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face in exhaustion. Aberforth had changed his tune once he’d heard where Jim had been spending his days. _Spock? You mean Grayson’s boy? Very good! Bit of an odd man out, that one, but good to have him on side. Inside man and all that._ Jim doesn’t know who Grayson is, or half of what Aberforth was talking about, but he understood enough to know he needed to pull his weight or the whole thing would come tumbling down.

Spock is watching him avidly from his place by the table. He has deep wells of patience in him, still waters and so on. Jim wonders whether those wells extend to forgiveness too. The day’s tantrum had to be strike two, surely.

Jim tries again. “I don’t know what’s going on with you or what you have to gain from this, but the fact is, I need you.” He looks Spock in the eye. “I’m never going to learn what I need to by myself, and we’ve got a month to convince T’Pring she’s not completely wasting her time on me, otherwise these negotiations, they’ll be over before they’ve really begun. And I know you don’t want that.”

“Indeed,” Spock says softly. The light through the garden door is burnished. In the shade of the filtered windows, Spock looks golden but tired. The shadows on his face are revealing.

“But I need to know. No more half-truths,” Jims says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I need to know everything about you and T’Pring, and this bonding thing, and the shielding you were talking about.” He looks Spock in the eye best he can. “And I promise, no more kid stuff. No tantrums or walking out without saying where I’m going. If you level with me, I’ll do what you say.” He sighs, feeling the truth of his words settle in his body. “I swear to you, I’m committed.”

Spock nods once. “A commendable attitude, Commander.”

“Jim,” he corrects softly.

“Jim.” Spock straightens, collecting his PADDs. “I shall see you in the morning.”

He makes his way to leave; Jim grabs his arm as he tries to pass.

“Spock,” he says, squeezing gently “thank you. For all of this. You’re giving up a lot.”

Spock looks down at where Jim is holding his arm, then looks back up. He doesn’t dislodge him, but meets his gaze equably.

“The cause is sufficient, Jim.”


	6. Chapter 6

Three days before the formalizing of the _koon’ul_ , Spock receives word from the High Command that a healer will not be present for the proceedings.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Jim asks, looking up from his seat in the garden.

In the intervening weeks since his abrupt departure into the city, Jim has established a modicum of independence, venturing into ShiKahr once Spock departs for the day. Spock had arrived one morning the week before to find that the communal clearing had been furnished with a bench and a canopy. Jim had looked at him expectantly. Spock had declined to comment, but he had returned the following day with a solar-powered fan ventilator and offered its use. It had been the correct response; Kirk had taken the offering with palpable glee.

Now he retires outdoors after lunch despite the rising heat of the season, leaving Spock to continue his work indoors. It is a peaceable arrangement.

Spock takes a seat next to Jim on the bench, still reading over the comm.

“The High Command has agreed to waive the requirement for a preliminary bond,” he says.

Jim frowns. “I thought you said the _koon’ul_ would give me the chance to adapt to having the bond?”

“I did.” It is a most unusual decision, Spock agrees. “However, it is not compulsory. There are mental disciplines we can attempt in order to prepare you that do not require the presence of the preliminary bond.” He looks at Jim. “Your Golic is improving.”

Jim exhales a laugh. “Been getting a lot of practice in,” he says, indicating the PADD he is holding. “Actually, if you have a second, I don’t think I’m saying this right…”

  
  


In the days following their initial discussion of bonding, Spock had answered Jim’s many questions on the subject, while also noting his renewed interest in his education. Jim had shared the Federal ambassador’s fears that the negotiations were proving difficult - Spock had not seen his father in many days to confirm or deny the allegations, but could believe the truth of them regardless. In light of Jim’s concerns, Spock had reviewed the curriculum, and revised it to focus on etiquette and language, the two markers by which Jim was most likely to be judged at the formal gathering.

Jim continued to be discomfited by what he perceived as an insult to Spock’s honor, despite Spock’s assurances to the contrary.

“I’m hard-pressed to believe they couldn’t have found someone who isn’t already promised to someone!” Jim had exclaimed on numerous occasions. “Does no one ever break these off? No one’s ever pre-widowed, or whatever you’d call it?”

“You are ascribing sentiment where none exists,” Spock had replied. “The promise was made between our parents. The _Telan t’Kanlar_ is more than a promise, but less than a contract. It is a logical act, instigated to provide succor at the appointed Time.”

“So what will you do at ’the appointed time’?” Jim had asked. “What happens to you now?”

Unwilling to explain the shameful furor of _plak tow_ and its dire consequences, Spock had been forced into honesty. “Should the need arise, I shall pursue _kolinahr_ , a discipline that focuses the mind to a state of pure logic.” To say that he had not considered _kolinahr_ before Jim’s arrival would be inaccurate, but it had been one of a number of options Spock had contemplated regarding his future. Now that the High Command has chosen his _kugalsu_ to bond with another, it merits re-examination.

“Do not concern yourself, Jim,” Spock had said on another occasion. “The connection between my mind and T’Pring’s is not strong. We have not encouraged its growth. Often I am unaware of its presence.”

Jim had smiled, but the expression had not suffused his face with the usual happiness. Curious. “I think that’s worse, actually.” He had not clarified further.

  
  


Jim raises the subject again that afternoon.

“I don’t know, Spock,” he says, swinging his leg to straddle the bench so he can face Spock directly. “I know you say it’s of no consequence, but where I come from, it’s a big deal, moving in on someone else’s girl.”

"’Moving in on’?” Spock asks. “This is not a phrase with which I am familiar.”

Jim waves his hand in dismissal. “It’s slang, it’s not important— look. Don’t your people have a concept of infidelity?”

Spock gives the matter due consideration. “Vulcans are monogamous, but this is a result of the bond rather than a cause. It is anathema for _telsu_ to cause harm to one another - to harm one’s bondmate is to harm one’s self. It is our right to provide for our bondmate, in all the ways their needs manifest.”

He looks up to see Jim is watching him with care. “Sounds nice,” he says. Spock does not understand; ’nice’ has variable meanings.

Jim shrugs. “Feels wrong, is all.” He leans back on his hands, raising his face to the warm air, eyes closed. “If I were engaged to someone back home and someone told me that it had been called off because she had to go marry a stranger, I wouldn’t be half as calm about it as you are.”

“You attach great emotional weight to a concept where none applies,” Spock says.

Jim squints one eye open to cast a disparaging look in Spock’s direction. “There’s literally a link between your minds. It doesn’t get more intimate than that.”

“Intimacy does not equate to sentiment,” Spock says.

Jim sighs, his shoulders falling. “That’s true.” He sits up. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. And I suppose if you’re not marrying for love, then it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Spock cannot speak to love. He has seen it pass between his parents in fond looks and cups of tea, quiet acts of devotion in which they each take a private pride. But Spock has not experienced this for himself. As a child he had come upon pre-Reform poetry that described brilliant and violent passions, and tenderness of such strength that it brings a flush to his cheeks even now. He has not borne witness to such things in the world. He cannot attest to their veracity.

“A match is chosen for reasons of mental compatibility and, more often than not, social standing.” T’Pring had been chosen for Spock as the daughter of another high-born family. Her parents had been willing to overlook Spock’s heritage in favor of his family name.

“Sounds logical,” says Jim.

“In part,” Spock says. He looks at Jim. “This is not the way for humans,” he states.

“I suppose not having the bond makes things easier and harder,” Jim says. “You can’t just look into someone’s head and know whether they’re a good fit, you have to work it out for yourself.”

Spock frowns; Jim laughs. “It’s true, there’s not a lot of room for logic,” he says. “Plenty of romance though.”

When Spock was a child, Amanda had sometimes spoken with reserved fondness about Sarek’s forays into human courtship. Spock had inferred that his father had not always understood the rituals in which he partook, leading to error on his part. He could not understand why the misconceptions amused his mother, nor why, if Sarek had failed to meet human standards for courting, his mother had agreed to bond with him.

As he grew older, he came to understand that it was Sarek’s willingness to observe Amanda’s customs that had endeared him to her. Spock had concluded that although the customs were not inherently logical to his father, they had held enough importance to his mother that his father saw fit to adopt them. Perhaps this is the essence of ’romance’.

“Courtship has little place among my people,” Spock says, “but there is a practice among the youth of Vulcan that continues to this day.”

In order to encourage the fledgling bond, the parents of the betrothed would often supervise, at intervals, the meeting of the _kugalsu_ while they initiated a shallow meld. Following _Telan t’Kanlar_ , T’Pring’s parents had not brought her to Spock’s home again.

“After the public announcement of your betrothal,” he continues, “you will be permitted to meet with T’Pring in the presence of a chaperone.” He thinks of his surreptitious meetings with T’Pring and wonders if she had, in typical contravention of tradition, been emulating this practice on her own terms.

Jim looks interested in the prospect, if not somewhat wary. “So we’ll go on dates?”

“I am not familiar with this term,” Spock replies.

“Shared activities,” Jim explains, “for the purpose of getting to know each other better.”

Spock considers this information. The supervised melds were, indeed, intended to breed familiarity between the betrothed. The more often the bond is accessed, the greater the number of neural pathways established, thereby strengthening the connection. But there was certainty inherent in a bond that could not be replicated by Jim and T’Pring in the absence of the _koon’ul_.

“Is this common on Earth?” Spock asks.

“It can be,” Jim says. “There may be variations depending on your upbringing and how things are done where you come from but sure, for the most part, people date. You go for dinner or bowling, or to the movies, and you spend time together so you can talk and learn about one another.” He smiles at Spock. “You talk about likes and dislikes, your family, your job - the basics. And either you enjoy the exchange so you decide to have more, or you don’t and you part ways.”

“Entirely subjective,” Spock comments. “Does this not allow for the possibility that one party experiences enjoyment while the other does not?” he asks.

Jim nods wryly in acknowledgement. “It happens - a lot actually. It’s not a science. But,” he adds, “that’s part of the process. It’s unlikely the first person you meet is the person you’ll click with.”

“And you have engaged in these ’dates’?” Spock asks.

“My fair share,” Jim says, “maybe more than that.” He shrugs, fiddling with the PADD in his hands distractedly before he looks away. “Got close a few times, but it’s hard to find someone when you know you’re about to head off on a starship. Hard to ask people to wait.”

Spock can appreciate this line of thinking. Before the option was rendered irrelevant, it had been a consideration in whether he would apply to Starfleet. Would T’Pring be willing to accept a bondmate who could not guarantee their presence? Ironic, then, that she should be in the position of bonding with a Starfleet officer. Spock cannot say whether the enforced separation is a mark in favor of the marriage or against it.

The light is fading. Spock rises to his feet; he will soon depart for home. “You did not drink water this afternoon,” he remarks. “I will fetch some now.”

“I got it, Spock,” Jim says, rising to his feet. “Got to get used to sorting myself out. Won’t have you to look after me when you batten down the hatches for these storms.”

The gathering also marks the beginning of the recess; _yonuk mazhiv_ commences in the following weeks. Spock will be unable to travel to ShiKahr as frequently during this period, and not at all during the season’s peak. Even Sarek will be secured within their home. In the past, when Sarek has been engaged in his role as diplomatic envoy, he has remained away the entire season, either deployed off planet or sequestered within the council halls, required to remain in the city for the fulfilment of his duties.

A season is a long time to remain isolated, Spock considers as he begins his journey home, even for a Vulcan. Humans are considerably more social. A solution will need to be devised.

  
  


On the morning of the gathering, Jim is distracted. Over the past few weeks, Spock has alternated between running and sparring with Jim before they begin their day’s work. They have not encountered Stonn and his companion since their first foray to the sparring pit, but Spock is careful to arrive and depart early.

Today they are sparring. As the storm season approaches, the heat of the day fails to disperse overnight, lending the dawn a pervasively sluggish quality. Spock is wearing short sleeves in deference to the changing weather; Jim has foregone his shirt entirely. Even with the dual challenge of fighting Jim and maintaining a secure hold on his shields, Spock is finding Jim an easier target than he has been of late. He is preoccupied.

After the fourth time Spock knocks Jim to the ground - the second time with the same combination of feint and round kick - he decides to bring the session to a halt prematurely.

“Your mind is not present,” Spock states.

Jim groans as he props himself up on his arms. “Sorry, Spock. It’s a big day.”

“The day is no larger or smaller than any that has preceded,” Spock remarks. “If you are commenting on the importance of today’s events, then I must concur. They are of great significance.”

Jim squints up at him. “That’s what I said.”

“I sought to clarify,” says Spock. “Perhaps we should make our return.”

Jim grunts as he staggers to his feet. He has the bearing of a sehlat cub not yet old enough to manage its own size. “Is it going to be this hot all day?”

“It is likely,” Spock replies. “The environmental controls in the Great Hall will be adjusted to accommodate offworlders. You will be comfortable.”

He hears Jim mutter something verging on snide under his breath before he straightens, throwing off his mood. “Yes, let’s head back. I don’t think I’ve got it in me to be tossed like a pancake again.”

They walk back to Jim’s lodgings in comfortable silence. Spock has noticed that as they have become more familiar with one another, Jim is less prone to occupying the quiet with meandering chatter. He still prefers to converse - they often discuss and debate his reading, and it is easier for him to grasp Golic when it is spoken aloud - but it is more focused now, and not merely a cover for anxiety. The knowledge brings Spock comfort - comfort that he acknowledges and releases.

When they return to the lodgings, Spock makes use of the fresher first as has been his habit. When he emerges, fully dressed, Jim is seated cross-legged by the door to the communal space. He is leaning against the jamb in a way that must place uncomfortable strain on his spine. He looks up at Spock when he crosses the room.

“I can’t afford to mess this up, Spock,” he says quietly. “There’s a lot riding on it.”

Spock does not ask him to clarify, only lowers himself to the ground, folding his legs to sit adjacent to Jim.

“There is no logic in attempting to predict the events of the evening,” Spock cautions. “You have learned the formal greetings in Golic, you are aware of the evening’s itinerary, and you are cognizant of our social practices. Any subject we have not covered in your education will be supplanted by your diplomacy training at Starfleet.”

Jim snorts.

“We have done all that is within our power to ensure you are prepared,” Spock continues. “We can do no more.”

“That’s what worries me,” Jim says. “What if it’s not enough?”

Spock gives the thought its due consideration. “Perhaps you would find meditation to be beneficial at this moment.”

Jim straightens. “Do you think it’ll help?”

“I cannot guarantee,” says Spock, “but the benefits of meditation are espoused by my people. I myself meditate twice a day to bring my thoughts into clarity.”

“How does it work?” Jim asks, shuffling so as to face Spock directly. “Do I need to learn a chant?”

“That will not be necessary,” Spock says. It is unclear to him the root of Jim’s many suppositions, save that they are human and often illogical. “Match your breaths to mine.”

Jim does as instructed, hands palms-down on his knees. Spock inhales slowly and deeply for five beats, holds for five, then exhales, equally slowly, for another five. Jim follows his example.

After a short while, he speaks.

“That it?” he asks with some skepticism.

“Concentrate,” Spock says. “Focus solely on your breath as it enters and leaves your body. Be aware of your limbs, your hands and feet. Dismiss any thought that comes to you; they have no power over you.”

Jim tries again, closing his eyes to concentrate. Spock follows suit, falling into a light trance. The first stage of meditation is a simple practice, taught to Vulcans in infancy. It should be enough to ease Jim’s anxieties for a short while if he can maintain the tranquility afforded by the lesson.

They continue in this way for half an hour. When Spock emerges from his trance, Jim is slumped forward, head tucked to his chest, fast asleep.

  
  


As with all major diplomatic functions held in ShiKahr, the night’s gathering takes place at the Great Hall located at the height of the council chambers in the very center of the city. Formerly a palace, the building towers above the rest of the city and is visible from as great a distance as Mount Seleya on a clear day. The Vulcan High Command conveys its decisions from its seat here at the council and the vaults beneath the building contain many of Vulcan’s historical relics and scrolls. It is an ornate and majestic construction, made from the red clay of the Forge and existing for many thousands of years. It is ostentatious in the way of all pre-Reform architecture, but also put to practical use. Every corridor, chamber, courtyard and tower has a designated purpose.

When Spock and Jim emerge from their transport, Jim is agape. He is wearing Starfleet’s dress uniform; his hair has been slicked into a manageable configuration with pommade, and he had spent approximately an hour following lunch polishing his rank insignia and boots. Spock is wearing formal robes appropriate for his station at the VSA, dark and closely cut, without any ornamentation. He does not doubt that his father will be in more elaborate wear, but Spock is content not to draw attention to himself. He is in attendance as a guest of the Federation, not the High Command, and he intends to keep at a remove from proceedings.

The walls of the Great Hall are adorned in lamps and broad tapestries. Scenes from once-great battles had long since been replaced by the IDIC symbol and large hangings embroidered with Surakian proverbs in Vulkhansu. There is a sizable crowd of delegates, adjuncts, council members, interpreters and various associated guests. As Spock and Jim enter the hall, Jim recognizes someone in the crowd and nods in acknowledgement. Only a few weeks ago he would have raised his hand in a wave. Spock is satisfied that he is prepared for the evening.

Somewhere in the throng T’Pring is in attendance with her parents and brothers. Spock’s peers are no doubt also present, and perhaps also his colleagues from the VSA. Starfleet has made no secret of their interest in Spock’s team’s research. He is certain he will be approached by the Admiralty over the course of the night

Beside him, Jim is pulling at his collar. “Desist,” Spock says in a low tone.

“It’s so warm in here,” Jim says, ignoring him. “I hate these things.”

Spock steers him to the large doors adjacent to the entrance which open onto a rockery and balcony that overlooks the city.

“Thermal regulation is in operation,” Spock says. “You are merely agitated.”

“Yes, Spock,” Jim mutters, “I’m _agitated_.” He looks askance at a passing Deltan. “I can’t do this.”

“You can and you must,” Spock says, quietly and firmly. “Calm yourself.”

Jim nods, a touch of hysteria in his eyes. “Yes, all right, can and must - sure.” His gaze darts wide-eyed about the room before he settles abruptly. He straightens, tugging on his jacket and then each of the sleeves in turn. Breathing deep, he turns to cast a sweeping glance upon Spock’s person. “You clean up good, Spock. Very sharp.”

“There you are!” A loud voice interrupts before Spock can ask the significance of ’very sharp’ in relation to his appearance. “Thought you’d run off.” The voice belongs to a human male, part of the Federation’s delegation. Spock surmises this is the man Jim encountered at the ShiKahri market the previous month - the man who had forewarned him that the negotiations were not proceeding well.

“Ambassador Aberforth,” Jim says, “we were just—”

“Hiding out, yes, I can see that,” the ambassador says. “And this must be S’chn T’gai Spock, yes?” Despite the swooping nature of his speech, he pronounces Spock’s family name perfectly. He raises an immaculate _ta’al_. " _Dif-tor heh smusma_ , Mr. Spock.”

Spock answers in kind. " _Sochya eh dif_.”

“Yes, yes,” says Aberforth, turning back to Jim. “Showtime, old boy.” He grabs Jim forcefully by both arms, shaking him with the force of his enthusiasm. “Too late to back out now. Shouldn’t have got off the shuttle if that’s how it’s going to be. Chin up, that’s a lad - chop chop.” In this curious way he cajoles Jim away from Spock and towards the far end of the hall. They soon disappear from view though Spock can still hear Aberforth’s interjections at intervals.

“The ambassador is an uncommonly jubilant man,” Sarek says, coming to stand by Spock. “Even the depths of his displeasure eject forth rhapsodically.”

“Father,” Spock acknowledges Sarek with a nod. It’s a rare occasion when Spock and his father meet outside the confines of their home. It has been many years since Spock and his mother were able to accompany Sarek on his travels, and the opportunities for their respective lines of work to overlap are so few as to be negligible. In order for them both to attend this evening, Healer T’Vot has agreed to be a guest in their home.

Sarek’s robes are severe but practical, and adorned with fine embroidery down the breast. Where Spock prefers to stand with his hands clasped behind his back, his father tucks them inside his sleeves. It is the opinion of all those who know them that Spock takes after his mother in appearance, except where Vulcan features dominate. Spock is tall and lean; his father is shorter and broad across the shoulders. Spock’s features are long; his father’s are square. Spock has his mother’s very human eyes. And yet Spock has come to notice similarities with his father also. They share a brow and nose; their hands are wide in the palm. They both excel at physical tasks. They both hold deep care for Spock’s mother.

There was a time in Spock’s youth when he had wished to be both more and less like his father. He had felt that if only he could be entirely Vulcan or entirely Human, there could be no confusion as to his nature, but, that he is both, conferred on him expectations of both. A great many things have changed in the intervening years. He no longer holds a preference; what is, is. Sarek, too, has come to see Spock in his own light. It would have been easy for them to part ways, blinded in equal parts by obstinance and pride; his father had cast off another son and no doubt could be persuaded to do the same again. Circumstances intervened to prevent it. Though he will not say so out loud, Spock is content. He is a boy no longer; he does not fear that which is not within the locus of his control.

“The Commander is prepared to be received by T’Pring’s family?” Sarek asks.

“Yes, Father,” Spock answers. “I have instructed him in the particulars of his responsibilities. He has been a willing and proficient student.”

“Then his successes this evening are yours to share, my son,” Sarek says.

The hall is full now, with all guests in attendance. Custodians close the entrance, while others open the balcony doors fully. Shields prevent the controlled air from escaping and heat from entering. Sarek indicates they should approach the front of the hall where a podium has been erected. Vulcans do not give speeches, but the Federation is fond of them. Ambassador Marchese, head of the Federal delegation, will address those gathered, before inviting T’Pring and Jim to the stage to congratulate them on their betrothal.

Spock follows his father, and takes a seat by his side.


	7. Chapter 7

When he’d seen T’Pring outside the VSA, Jim had run after her on instinct. It had been weeks by then - weeks of wondering who she’d be and what she’d be like; whether he’d be able to persuade her to put her trust in him, and whether he’d want her to. Days, too, since he’d uncovered her holo and taken to looking at it while sequestered alone in his digs, his eyes tracing the line of her brow and the serious set of her eyes while he sat making ill-advised plans on the basis of wistful desire and half-baked hopes. Spock would have scolded him for his lack of logic, but what Jim had felt - lonely and anxious and hopeful - hadn’t been a thing of logic.

He’d broken his own rule - to go slow - but he couldn’t help it. The idea of a partner, or someone to help him shoulder his burdens and whose burdens he could alleviate in return: it had been a buffet course to a starving man. The lure was too strong.

He’d caught her wrist.

It had been less than a moment. To begin with, he wasn’t sure what had happened or what he had felt, almost a shard running through his skull, bright and immediate. The horror and revulsion had washed through afterwards like a tidal wave, overwhelming and unthinking, and sparking off against his worst insecurities: that he would never be good enough; that he’d live in obscurity; that he would be cast aside without ever being seen, faceless, nameless and forgotten by history. It was like someone had taken a hand to the secret corners of his heart and pulled, dragging the worst of him out into the street for everyone to see. He’d felt utterly exposed and deeply, deeply ashamed.

They’d made eye-contact in that split second - T’Pring’s eyes shockingly unguarded - before she’d snatched her hand away. It had struck him like a blow: Jim’s heart had stuttered, hiccupping like a ship under impact before the CO’s called for brace. He’d felt sick; his mouth was dry, his face hot - his stomach roiling violently.

Sokel had tried to intervene, to make a space between Jim and T’Pring, but it had been too late. Still in the mire of his wounded pride, Jim had lashed out verbally, overloud in the cavernous lobby of the VSA, his ego bruised and bleeding. He’d just wanted to say hello, he’d thought, near-frantic. He’d just wanted to meet her.

In hindsight, Jim knows the fault was his. Vulcans don’t do touch. Even Spock had tried to warn him on his very first day - _it would be wise to refrain from tactile displays_. T’Pring hadn’t known who he was, just that he’d come upon her unawares, forcing the cacophony of his mind on hers. He thinks the revulsion was in answer to the emotional onslaught, sudden enough to temporarily overwhelm her shields. It isn’t the done thing to put your hands on someone without warning or invitation; that’s true enough even back home. But the stigma attached to what he’d done was profound on Vulcan. The only way it could have been worse is if he’d acted with intention.

By the time Spock had emerged from the ether, the damage had been done. Jim’s still not sure how Spock had known to come. He couldn’t have made things better, but he’d stopped Jim from making them worse - T’Pring standing silent, almost vibrating with muted outrage at the violation. Did she know, then, that he was the one the Federation had picked to be her husband? Or had that news arrived afterwards, licking close into her mouth like yesterday’s synthehol the morning after a long night out?

Spock had never asked him about the specifics of what had happened, instead inserting himself in Jim’s life forcefully, mindful of his need for guidance without drawing attention as to why. Jim’s grateful for the circumspection, but also too scared to ask how much he’d seen or heard.

The revulsion has stuck to Jim’s ribs. He’d taken it personally - hard not to when it’s injected straight into the cerebral cortex. He’d wake in the middle of the night, struggling to breathe, stumbling into the fresher to use the sonics and unwilling to look at himself in the mirror. He carried it with him, and the closer they’d come to the _koon’ul_ the heavier it had become.

Not that Aberforth knows or cares about that. He’s got Jim up and moving before Jim can gather his wits.

  
  


Aberforth is surprisingly strong for his build. That’ll teach Jim to judge a book by its cover.

Before he knows what’s happening, the ambassador has literally strong-armed him away from Spock and across the hall, his badgering accompanied by an ongoing commentary that Jim can barely decipher, part encouragement, part dire warning. By the time he pushes Jim through a side door into an antechamber and closes the door behind him, Jim’s not sure he could make his way back to Spock without a map.

“Commander Kirk.”

Jim turns to see the only other occupant of the room. It’s T’Pring.

Much like the first time they met, her long hair is coiled up over her head. It’s conspicuously extravagant in a sea of uniform bowl cuts, but Jim finds he likes it. It’s a point of distinction in a place where Jim knows function is favored over form to the eradication of exception. It speaks volumes about her, whether she knows it or not. He suspects she does.

She’s seated by a desk, hands clasped in her lap. There’s an IDIC badge pinned to the front of her dress; floor-length lilac, not quite silk, but light and fluid. Jim approaches slowly, offering the _ta’al_.

" _Dif-tor heh smusma_ ,” he says, carefully and precise. It’s a lot easier to separate his fingers into the correct configuration; it comes more naturally.

T’Pring raises one perfectly-shaped eyebrow. “Indeed.”

Jim had come in with a plan. It wasn’t one he’d shared with Spock, but yes, he’d come here ready to put in the work. He was going to apologize for the altercation at the VSA, prove he’d been making an effort, and ask for the chance to prove himself. But being face-to-face with T’Pring again reminds him all over how he’d felt at the VSA, and he knows immediately that he doesn’t have a chance of winning her over. T’Pring’s already made her mind up about him; she might have made her mind up before they’d even met. He can respect that. She isn’t a diplomat; she’s an Admiral. And Jim knows the Admiralty.

Sure, he’d flown in on a wing and a prayer, hoping for something real. But in the absence of that, he’s not going to make do with false promises. That’s not his style. It’s not what he wants.

It’s not why Starfleet picked him.

“You ready to make a deal yet?” he asks. T’Pring’s second eyebrow climbs to meet the first.

“In order to make a bargain, one must have something of value to barter,” she says. “What could you have, Commander, that would be of value to me?”

Jim spreads his hands in a low shrug. “I think you might value your freedom.”

“It is not yours to give,” says T’Pring.

“Sure about that?” Jim asks.

There’s a long pause while T’Pring considers him. She doesn’t look him up and down the way he’s expecting; she’d have done that when he first knocked into her at the VSA. But she does hold his eye, and he meets her unblinking stare with one of his own. He can’t read her at all: Spock, he realizes, is almost malleable next to T’Pring’s pointed impassivity. Jim’s gotten used to being able to read his tells, but T’Pring doesn’t seem to have any. He wonders what they’re like together, whether they’re a good match. He wonders if this whole thing makes more sense with Spock in the room and Jim outside it.

Finally she rises to her feet in one movement. The folds of her dress fall to the ground in waves until she’s columnar and regal. There’s a faint chime as the chain attached to her badge also falls into place. She’s pristine. It’s a lot to take in.

“What do you propose?”

“A marriage of convenience,” Jim says, spitting out the idea as quickly as it comes to him. “Call it an old Earth tradition. We’d still be married, I can’t get you out of that, but marriage offers protections and freedoms that breaking the _koon’ul_ won’t.” He chances a step forward. “Nothing about this strikes me as your idea. I’m sure you had hopes and plans of your own - and yes, I know, Vulcans don’t hope. But you do have aspirations.” He looks her in the eye, willing her to take the leap with him. “I’ll bet yours were lofty.”

“Your planet - your people - need this treaty to go through. Joining the Federation offers protections the High Command can’t guarantee alone, and don’t tell me you think Vulcan’s already reaped the punishment of being associated with the Federation. You’re too smart to believe that isolationism is going to work out for you.”

“There’s a ship waiting for me at the end of all this - a ship and a Captaincy. Starfleet’s preparing to send me out on a five-year exploratory expedition, a mission of discovery and diplomacy. You can come with me, be a science officer, the first one out there to see beyond the edge of the known universe. Or,” he adds, “you can stay here, with all the benefits that being the wife of a Starfleet Captain can bring. Freedom of movement, authority over your own life, access to resources across the Federation. You get lucky, I die out there, and you can do whatever you want. Hell,” he huffs out a laugh, “as long as you’re discreet you can shack up with someone else as soon as I’m out of the space dock.”

“Is that what you intend to do?” T’Pring interjects.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” He sighs. “You’re not what I’d hoped,” he says, “but then I suppose the reverse is true too.”

“An intriguing prospect, Commander.” T’Pring tilts her head appraisingly. “Spock has explained to you the nature of the bond?”

" _Never and always touching and touched_ ,” Jim recites. “I think that about covers it.”

“Indeed,” she says, straightening. “What would be my obligations under such an agreement?”

Did that work? Jim thinks it worked. “You go through this wedding with me, this _kal’i’farr_ ; you play the part of the Captain’s dutiful wife, and you do what you can to make this treaty work - for you and for your people.” He shrugs helplessly; that’s it, all cards on the table. “Say yes,” he says, “to me. Say yes, and have a thousand doors open in front of you. Say no - hear them shut.”

There’s a chime at the door - the only warning Jim gets before it slides open and a custodian enters with an older Vulcan behind him. T’Pring steps in front of Jim. “Father,” she says. “May I introduce Lieutenant Commander James Tiberius Kirk,” she looks back at Jim, careful to catch his eye, “my intended.”

  
  


There are so many speeches, Jim thinks as he sits behind the podium, sweating it out under the lamps. He can only see the front of the gathered crowd, and he’s been scanning it for Spock ever since the custodian led them out. He reminds himself of the need to look attentive. To his right, T’Pring and her father, Solen, are sitting perfectly erect, perfectly still. Jim feels like he’s about to crawl out of his own skin.

He’d use the meditation technique Spock had taught him that morning but he’s too worried he’ll fall asleep. It’s one thing to knock out in front of Spock; another to do it in a room full of people responsible for negotiating a lasting alliance between two intergalactic powers.

Oh, yes - that’ll do it. No way Jim’s going to relax now.

Onadera Marchese finishes her address. The Vulcans in the room tip their heads in solemn acknowledgement; the outworlders, as Spock calls them, applaud. Looking past his future father-in-law, Jim catches sight of Aberforth in the wings. He has the audacity to wink. If Jim didn’t find him almost comfortingly energetic, he’d smack him in the teeth.

And then it’s time.

If Jim were still on Earth, this is the point where he’d turn to T’Pring, smile and proffer his arm or even his hand. But this isn’t Earth. There’s no place for intimacies when there’s a crowd of people waiting to see what you’ll do next. Jim and T’Pring stand in time with one another, and approach the dais, Jim at a modified parade rest, closer to Spock than anything he’d learned at the Academy.

As the need for a healer has been waived, there won’t be a meld. “You will stand as one,” Spock had explained, “and be presented to the delegates and guests. You will then be required to recite the ceremonial words.”

T’Pring, as the bride-to-be, goes first. “Parted from me, and never parted. Always and never touching and touched.” Jim’s heart is racing loud enough to be heard in the streets. T’Pring looks at him cooly, steadfastly keeping his gaze. “I will meet you at the appointed time.”

 _I can’t do this_ , Jim thinks.

 _You can and you must._ Spock’s words ring in his ears. It’s never been more true.

“Parted from me,” Jim recites, “and never parted. Always and never touching and touched. I will await you.”

They bow slowly, until their foreheads touch. T’Pring flinches at the contact, a barely perceptible tremor that she quickly suppresses. Jim tries not to take it personally, struggling to keep his breathing intact.

T’Pring pulls away first. Once they’re both upright, they turn outwards towards the crowd. Somewhere a bell intones heavily three times, and Jim and T’Pring bow to the crowd who, as though held by the same strings, bow as one in response.

Somewhere Marchese is speaking again. “—join me in congratulating the happy couple.” Applause, deafening, rings out across the room. Jim looks at T’Pring; she doesn’t look back. It’s done, he thinks. They’re past the first hurdle.

  
  


By the time Jim makes it off the podium, T’Pring has disappeared from sight. He gets held back by well-wishers, Federation and Vulcan both, and by the time he’s gone through them all, bowing and nodding and emphatically not shaking hands, he can’t see where she’s gone. He spots Aberforth laughing heartily with Marchese and a stone-faced council member. Behind them is an approaching Starfleet officer - more specifically, the Fleet Captain.

“Kirk,” he says when he’s within ear-shot, “congratulations.” He extends his hand; Jim grasps it in return, relieved to see a familiar face.

“Captain Pike,” he says, “thank you. If you don’t mind my saying, sir, you’re a long way from home.”

They’d met while Pike was still Captain of the Enterprise, back when the biggest problem of Jim’s day was a rogue Klingon mining ship on the edge of the Neutral Zone trying to win their honor by baiting and facing down a Federation starship. The trap had caught a number of ships already by the time Garrovick had been commanded out there, but if it hadn’t been for an eleventh-hour save by the Enterprise, Jim’s not sure they’d have come out of that one unscathed.

And now the saucer of the Enterprise was sitting fifty klicks outside ShiKahr, like the planet had opened up to take a bite out of it.

“I don’t,” says Pike, “and I am.” He looks Jim square in the eye. There’s a lot of that going around. “Well done, son. You’re doing us proud.”

Jim’s not sure that’s strictly true, but then he thinks of what happened in the antechamber and he reconsiders. The marriage is going ahead. T’Pring agreed to the terms. Now all he has to do is get through the wedding. Easy, right?

Hungry for news from the Fleet, Jim and Pike talk shop for a while. The Klingons had scattered after the attack on ShiKahr, pushed back behind the Neutral Zone by Federation Starfleet forces, but lately there have been signs of re-emergence. Nothing big, one or two ships accidentally falling over the boundary. Jim wordlessly voices his skepticism; Pike echoes in kind.

“Something about the attack,” Jim confides, lowering his voice in deference to sharper ears, “just never sat right with me. Klingons are reckless, sure, but why Vulcan? They had to know the Federation would step up to intervene.”

Pike steps in closer, pitching his voice solely for Jim. “I’ve been asking the same question,” he says. “There’s nothing concrete yet, but early signs are they didn’t act alone.”

Romulans, Jim thinks in alarm. He tries to school his features, but the horror on his face must shine through like light through rice paper.

“Keep that to yourself,” Pike mutters, “but when you’re back up in the blue, that’s probably the first thing we’ll put you on.”

There’s a sudden movement to Jim’s right that causes him to look up and step back, almost knocking into the Rigellian behind him. Pike shoots out a hand to steady him - Jim passes him a sheepishly grateful look before refocusing his attention.

“Hello, Spock.”

“Commander,” he says, managing to sound dry and pointed without changing his inflection. Jim grimaces; probably too much to hope he hadn’t seen Jim trip over his own feet. Then again, after coming up against the stone wall of T’Pring’s demeanor, it’s comforting to see Spock. Jim turns to Pike to make introductions, but before he can, Spock turns and gives a short bow. “Captain Pike. I am gratified to see you again.”

“And you, Spock,” Pike says, tamping down on a grin. His eyes are bright. “How’s that propulsion system coming along?”

Ah, Jim thinks. That’s why he’s here.

“We are making decisive progress, Captain,” says Spock. “You will be able to see our conclusions when they are published, along with any other party who may be interested.”

Pike receives the gentle censure with good humor. “Message received.” He looks at Jim, tipping a conspiratorial nod in Spock’s direction. “Think you can work some of the old Kirk charm on this one? He’s been dodging my calls.”

Spock’s protest is swift. “Captain, you have made no ’calls’ to my comm—”

“Relax, Spock,” Jim says. “The Captain just means that he hasn’t been able to persuade you to his way of thinking.”

“Playing hard to get,” Pike says. “See if you can’t get him to change his mind, Commander. I’m sure Mr. Spock would make a fine Science Officer.”

Jim startles; he’d thought they’d been discussing Spock’s research, but it sounds like Pike’s trying to recruit him. He thinks about it - it wouldn’t be the worst idea. Spock’s meticulous and intuitive, both careful and inquisitive. He’d make a strong addition to any crew. Jim looks over at him with a smile.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

  
  


The party goes on for a while. Jim manages to snag a glass of wine, the first he’s had in some time, and it goes down real easy. He’s nursing a second as he and Spock tour the room, stopping to speak to various ambassadors and well-wishers, though they’re careful to head in the opposite direction when either of them even so much as hears Aberforth’s booming prattle. Everyone’s in a good mood, and now that the worst of it’s over, Jim can relax. The wine is sitting warmly in his stomach; the night’s success settles like a blanket over the worst of his anxiety.

“What is that?” Jim asks, nodding at a Vulcan couple who are carefully and solemnly pressing their fingers together. “That thing they’re doing with their fingers? Is that a marital thing?”

Spock leads Jim out of the gathering, away from sharper ears. “It is called the _ozh’esta_. Vulcans do not engage in public displays of affection, but the _ozh’esta_ is a discreet alternative permissible within the bounds of propriety.” They make their way out onto the balcony overlooking Vulcan’s Forge. Mount Seleya is a somber figure on the horizon, limned in gold from the setting sun. Overhead, T’Khut is visible in the open sky. “One bondmate extends their fingers thus,” Spock demonstrates, extending his pointer and middle fingers together in a straight line, “and the other meets them.” He brings up his other hand, fingers similarly extended, and lays them crosswise in example, meeting at the fingertips.

“So it’s a kiss?” Jim asks. “I know your people aren’t big on feeling your feelings, but I think I prefer the human way.”

Spock drops his hands, clasping them behind his back as is his habit. “You forget that Vulcans are touch-telepaths. There are a high number of nerve endings in a Vulcan’s hands, particularly the fingertips, endings which make us particularly receptive to psionic waves.” He looks out across the darkening desert plains. “A single touch is said to alight the bond, conferring comfort on both _telsu_.”

Spock is holding himself with a particular stillness, one that hints at a certain level of discomfort. Were they in the clear light of day, Jim’s sure he’d be able to detect a faint flush to his ears. He mulls over Spock’s words, then realizes what he’s said. Rolling up his sleeves, he leans on the balcony wall, giving Spock the gift of his inattention. “Is said to?” he asks softly. “You don’t know?”

In his periphery, Spock straightens further. “I do not have a bondmate.”

“But T’Pring is - was - is? - your _ko-kugalsu_. You never tried it?”

“It was not deemed necessary,” Spock says. His hands are clasped tightly behind his back. “T’Pring and I did not attempt to encourage our bond beyond its inception.”

If there’s one thing Jim’s coming to learn, it’s that whatever was put in place between T’Pring and Spock was about as welcome to her as Jim himself. He thinks about what it must be like to be Spock - knowing you have to rely on someone, bringing them into your mind and knowing they don’t want to be there. Vulcan or not, that had to hurt. He thinks about all the other ways Spock has had to make allowances where T’Pring is concerned, and then he tries not to think about it too much. He still doesn’t feel great about his part in it.

Looking at Spock from the corner of his eye, he wonders about Pike’s assertion that Spock would make a good officer. The idea fits so well that Jim can picture it, Spock at his side on the bridge of a new ship, solemn and studious. He feels a sharp pang of want pierce his chest. He struggles to swallow past it.

He finishes his wine and straightens, breaking the heavy mood. “Let’s head back in.” He tugs at the collar of his shirt. “I’m melting out here.”

Spock quirks an eyebrow at him, turning back towards the hall. “A highly uncommon aspect of human physiology. Is it an inherited trait, or a random occurrence within the population?”

Jim huffs a laugh. “Smart ass.”

“I assure you—”

“Spock, I know you know what I mean.”

Spock tilts his head in acknowledgement, the idea of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let us return indoors. Any liquefaction on your part would only be detrimental to diplomatic proceedings.”


	8. Chapter 8

The solution, in the end, is simple.

The morning after the gathering, Spock discusses his proposal with his parents over breakfast. Amanda is seated in the kitchen today, having risen early to converse with Healer T’Vot before the latter made her departure at dawn. As both Spock and his father are home for the duration of the morning, the three of them break their night’s fast together, Spock bringing the meal to the table while Sarek prepares tea for them all. It is rare that they have the opportunity to indulge in familial domesticity. Despite her fatigue, Spock can see that his mother is content.

Spock had known the night before that he would have the morning to spare for his mother’s company. He’d escorted Jim back to his lodgings after the gathering, worn and not a little inebriated. “Early start tomorrow?” Jim had asked, mouth moving sluggishly over the words. Spock had declined, citing Jim’s successful _koon’ul_ as justification enough to forego their morning routine.

In truth he had doubted Kirk’s ability to function after the duress of the day and his subsequent imbibing, and had reasoned it would not be injurious to allow him his recovery. He had helped Jim retire for the night, leaving water by his cot, and two hypos for use in the morning - one for the inevitable cephalgia and nausea, the other his regular dose of tri-ox. Jim had fallen asleep still half-dressed, face-down in the bed. Spock had removed his boots, securing them safely out of harm’s way, and left him to his rest.

It is in part this vulnerability that Spock has witnessed in the humans of his acquaintance that persuades him that to leave Jim to his own devices for the full duration of the storm season would be ill-advised. Though he does not cite this reasoning to his parents, his mother nonetheless agrees.

“You’ll have to bring him here, Spock,” Amanda says, warming her hands on the tea Sarek provides. “You can’t leave him in the city by himself - he’ll go stir-crazy.”

Sarek also agrees. “In the absence of bonds, humans are reliant on social interaction to maintain their health and well-being.” Spock watches his mother hide a smile behind a sip of tea. “Furthermore, it is your responsibility as the Commander’s close acquaintance and being more familiar with our seasons to make provision for his safety during _yonuk mazhiv_.”

“It _will_ be pleasant to have another human around,” Amanda says. “Oh, I know, you’re both more than adequate company, but I should very much like to have another human with whom to share Christmas this year.” As the Vulcan year is typically shorter than that of Earth, even fixed Terran festivities become a moveable feast in Spock’s family home. He had been aware of the holiday’s advent but had neglected to ascertain the precise date. Spock wonders whether there are traditions Jim will wish to observe. His mother’s observance is secular, a way to maintain nostalgia for her home planet and culture, but there is a possibility that Jim ascribes to a specific religious practice.

“Not so much, no.” Jim replies when Spock asks him directly. Though the hour approaches midday, Jim has yet to dress for the day. Clothed only in shorts, he had answered the door squinting into the light. His hair has taken on an unusual asymmetric configuration which he attempts to flatten, succeeding only in creating a new configuration. “Well, I suppose Dad’s side used to go to church, but Ma’s more likely to worship at the foot of a warp core, so that’s— yes.” He steps out of the doorway to allow Spock to enter, traipsing back into the unit and into his bedroom. “Why’d you ask?” he calls from within.

Spock refrains from questioning which religious denomination ascribes divine properties to starship engines - he suspects the remark is in jest, and nevertheless would detract from his original purpose. He notes there is only one spent hypospray on the table; the tri-ox is still full. Spock collects it before detouring to Jim’s quarters, unwilling to carry on their conversation across two rooms.

Jim’s room is in a particular state of disarray, even for him. His boots are still against the wall where Spock had placed them the night before, but his dress uniform is scattered across the floor, the jacket in a heap by the bed and the pants, for some reason, by the window. Jim himself is crouched rummaging through a pile of clean laundry, disrupting its uniformity in search of some item of clothing that suits his needs for the day. Spock strides over and injects the hypospray directly into his neck.

“Ow, jeez,” Jim slaps the site of the injection with a scowl. “Where did you come from? Have you been speaking to Bones?”

Spock is unable to refrain. “As they are unable to answer, I do not know why I should.”

“No, I just meant—” Jim cuts himself off. “Never mind.” Curious. He stands, clean clothes in hand. “Do you intend to stand there and watch, Spock? Not that I’m shy,” - a light flush is spreading slowly down his chest in opposition to this statement - “but I wouldn’t want to disturb your delicate Vulcan sensibilities.”

Spock decides not to contradict him, choosing instead to turn his back to the room.

“Right,” Jim says from behind him. “That works too.”

It would not do to allow Jim to become distracted. “You do not then celebrate any seasonal festivities when you are on Earth?”

Jim’s voice is muffled when he replies, indicating he is dressing. “Well, I suppose Christmas but - oh, damn.” His voice becomes clear once more. “I suppose it’s about that time, huh?” There is a susurrus of noise before something falls heavily to the ground and he cusses.

“Are you well, Jim?”

“I’m fine,” he answers, winded. “You can turn around now if you want.”

When Spock turns, Jim is on his cot, pulling shoes onto his feet. His soiled clothes are collected in another pile on the floor. Spock moves to retrieve them for laundering, but Jim stops him.

“Leave that; I’ve got it,” he says, looking up at Spock curiously. “Why all the cloak and dagger?”

“I am not familiar with—”

“I mean,” Jim interrupts, “why are you asking so many questions about Christmas? I didn’t think Vulcans celebrated.”

“As a rule, we do not,” Spock says, clasping his hands behind his back as he straightens. “My mother wishes to invite you to our home for the duration of _yonuk mazhiv_. As this period will coincide with the Terran festival of Christmas, I wished to ascertain whether observance of the holiday is in keeping with your own preferences, or whether alternate arrangements should be made.”

Jim has paused, one shoe on, the other in his hands. “I can come stay with you? During the storms, I mean?”

“Yes, Jim,” Spock answers. “My family’s home is large enough to comfortably house another person without undue disruption. Furthermore, I believe it would be… unkind to allow you to remain here without further social interaction.”

“So this is a pity thing,” Jim says, straightening to rest his arms on his knees. He sounds distressed.

“I have no cause to pity you,” Spock says. “If your preference is to remain here within the city, I will not prevent you from doing so, though it will be more difficult for us to maintain your education, as the frequent storms often interfere with planetary communications. At my family’s home we can continue your progress and ensure your safety in the event of sandfire.”

“You know I’m a grown man, right?” Jim asks, his tone wry. “I can take care of myself.”

Spock frowns in confusion. “You misunderstand me.”

“What exactly are you asking me?” Jim asks, bending to slip his foot into the second shoe. “Are you asking my permission to carry me off to your cave, or are you inviting me as a friend?”

Spock finds himself unable to answer immediately. As is often the case with Jim, Spock must disregard the more vibrant imagery of his speech to focus on the fundamentals, namely that Jim is questioning the parameters of their relationship. That Spock embarked on this association in order to assist Jim and thereby assist his people is not untrue. And yet it is inaccurate to suggest that Spock acts solely in the interests of diplomacy. Over the course of the past months, Spock has found himself content to share his days with Jim. As to the matter of friendship, Spock has no abiding reference. They are not passing acquaintances, nor are they colleagues, nor kin.

“I am unable to answer your question,” Spock says at last, “as I do not have the necessary familiarity with the terms to be able to ascertain their accuracy.”

Jim frowns. “You get downright syllabic when you’re frustrated,” he says, “you know that?”

“I object to the accusation—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jim waves a hand dismissively, “Vulcans don’t have feelings, et cetera, et cetera. Are we friends, Spock? I was hoping we were.”

Spock bows in acknowledgement. “The fault is mine,” he says. A flash of distress crosses Jim’s face, but it quickly disappears when Spock continues. “I do not know the parameters that qualify one for friendship, and as such am unable to give a true answer.”

Jim deflates, suddenly abashed. “Right, of course.” He gets to his feet. “Well, you’re my friend,” he says, coming to a stop in front of Spock. “I think you’re good people, and I like spending time with you.”

“Are these the qualifications?” Spock asks.

“Sure,” Jim says, “some of them. They can vary, but those two cover a lot of them.” He ducks to catch Spock’s eye. “How about you? Do you like me?”

“Vulcans do not ’like’—”

Jim groans with laughter. “Spock, come on! It’s an easy question. I know you can do Standard-to-Golic. Do you like me? Do you have ’a marked preference’ for coming here every day? Or you just schlepping it out here out of a sense of civic duty?”

“It is not mere obligation that brings me to you door,” Spock says, solemnly, acknowledging the truth of the statement as he gives voice to it. “Although I am motivated to ensure your success, and with it the success of the negotiations between our people, I find I am content to share your company, Jim.”

Jim smiles, bringing his hands up slowly to grasp Spock by the arms. He telegraphs his movements, giving Spock enough time to secure his shields. His palms are warm, even though the sleeves of Spock’s tunic. “I knew you’d get there eventually,” he says. “So, let’s try this again. I know you don’t like to repeat yourself but think of it as, I don’t know, an exercise in cultural exchange.” He smiles encouragingly. “What are you trying to ask me?”

Spock refrains from rolling his eyes, though the impulse is strong. “Jim, please accept my family’s—” Jim’s grip tightens fractionally; Spock corrects himself, “— _my_ invitation to spend the duration of _yonuk mazhik_ at my family’s home. Your presence would honor me.”

Jim’s eyes soften. “Thank you Spock; I accept.” He squeezes Spock’s arms once before turning to collect his soiled laundry. “Not going to lie - I’m glad you asked. I was worried I’d start climbing the walls after a few days of confinement.”

“Is a starship not a place of confinement?” Spock asks.

“It is,” Jim says, making his bed, “but it’s a lot easier to deal with when you’re serving with four hundred other people and there’s just as many rooms on the ship. It’s like being confined with neighbors; it’s not exactly solitary.” He looks up at Spock from where he is bent over, adjusting the sheets. “Maybe you’ll have the chance to find out for yourself some day,” he says with a grin.

  
  


While Jim packs his few possessions, Spock comms his father to request a transport out of ShiKahr. Although Spock is accustomed to traversing the distance on foot, the temperature is too high to consider asking the same of Jim. Spock himself does not make the journey at the height of the day so it is no great concession to make the request of his father. He could, of course, hire a vee for the purpose but he is unwilling to bring one to the house. His parents are aware that Spock is able to drive, and will do so in the city as is necessary, but he remains reluctant to bring their attention to the fact more than is strictly necessary.

The journey out of ShiKahr is not long by vee, but long enough for Jim to become taciturn. His eyes remain fixed on the landscape as they travel to the outskirts of the city then out beyond its limits. Spock surmises that Jim is experiencing trepidation about the decision to accompany Spock.

“So,” Jim says as buildings fall away to reveal open plains, the Forge a dark blur on the horizon. “You’ve never said anything about your parents. What are they like?”

The question is redundant; Jim will soon have occasion to meet Spock’s parents and draw his own conclusions. Nevertheless, Spock answers him in an effort to distract him from his apprehension.

“My father is Vulcan’s ambassador to Earth. My mother is—”

“Amanda Grayson,” Jim says, wide-eyed.

“Yes,” Spock acknowledges. “You have knowledge of her?”

“Are you kidding me?” Jim exclaims, the news propelling him from his agitation. “The woman behind the Universal Translator? The first human to marry a Vulcan? The first person to have—” He stalls; Spock realizes the conclusion he has drawn. “You’re half human,” he says. “You’re the baby that survived.”

“Indeed,” says Spock. He has nothing to add; the effort of his conception is documented.

Jim is not so content.

“Spock, god, why didn’t you say something?”

“To what end?”

“What,” he scoffs, “you don’t think it’s relevant?”

“I do not,” says Spock. “I was raised in Vulcan’s customs, among Vulcans. While I do not deny that my hybridism distinguishes me from my peers at a genetic level, in all other ways I am surely as Vulcan as they.”

“Except you’re not,” Jim says. “It’s fine, you know; human’s not a dirty word.”

“I do not harbor shame over my ancestry,” Spock protests. “To do so would be illogical. It is not within my ability to control.”

“All right, Spock,” Jim says placatingly, reaching to squeeze his arm once before letting his hand drop back to the seat. “I believe you.”

Spock is prevented from arguing further by their arrival at their destination.

  
  


Spock instructs the driver of the vee to return to ShiKahr; Sarek will have need of the transport this evening. Once he has departed, Spock comes to join Jim who is staring up at the front of the house having shouldered his bag.

“Do you wish to remain outdoors,” Spock asks, “or are you content to enter at this time?”

Jim knocks into him lightly in wordless censure. “You’re going to have to give me a minute, Spock,” he says, turning to look at the house once more. “I’m having to rapidly adjust my expectations.”

“In what way?” Spock asks. He looks to the house. He can see no deficiency from where they stand. It has a symmetrical construction, is three stories in height and is built from the red clay of the Forge in the same manner of all long-standing buildings in ShiKahr. The property is distinguished by ornamental features - large panes of glass wall the top floor while burnished copper panels adorn the sides, and wide beams support the roof, made from an aged wood found in the southern continents where rainfall is more common. There are enough rooms within to comfortably house five families - indeed, the house had once been the family seat. It belongs to Sarek now; Spock’s forebearers reside across the far side of the continent.

Unlike properties of its kind on Earth, the house has no lawn, but the ground is paved with tiles allowing passage around the circumference of the plot. At the back there is a walled space that separates the grounds from the desert beyond where Spock now cares for his mother’s transplanted flora. It is a house. Spock has lived there his whole life.

“I suppose when you said house I was thinking something a little less…” Jim trails off as he searches for the word, "...palatial?”

“You exaggerate,” Spock says.

“No,” says Jim, drawing out the word. “Not really.”

Aware of the clamor of the sun, Spock leads into the house. As is usual, his mother hears the doors close; her voice emerges from the aged comm. “Spock, is that you?”

Jim watches as Spock flicks the switch. “Yes, Mother. We have arrived.”

“Oh, wonderful,” his mother exclaims softly. “Bring our guest to visit me once you’ve settled his things. And offer him a drink. He must be thirsty in all this heat.”

“Yes, Mother,” Spock replies. “I shall bring you tea.”

“Thank you, Spock. That would be lovely.”

Spock turns to proceed up the first staircase, Jim following close behind. “I have prepared the room adjacent to mine, in case you have need of me,” Spock says as they climb. “If it is not suitable, there are others available.”

“No, Spock,” Jim says, distracted by the change in scenery. “I’m sure it’ll be great.” It is likely he will find much to engage his interests during his stay, Spock thinks, if he is easily enthralled by common architectural features.

The hallways are wide, though there is evidence that some of the doorways have been widened, the paint on the newer beams less tarnished with age. Spock’s rooms are on the first floor of the property; his parents reside on the second where the vantage is so great as to be able to see the whole of ShiKahr on one side and the Forge and Mount Seleya on the other. They had previously utilized rooms on the first floor as well, but had relocated to allow Spock’s mother the advantage of the property’s elevation. There is a bell ensconced in the wall so that his mother may call for his assistance from elsewhere in the house. She does not have much cause to use it, but it can be an asset when Spock’s father is offworld.

He leads Jim to the room next to his; they are adjoined by a fresher, one with running water, though Spock prefers the use of the sonic. He is sure Jim will be gratified. When they come to a stop, Jim drops his bag from his shoulder; it falls to the ground with a low thud. His gaze wanders from corner to corner.

“Does it meet your needs?” Spock asks at last.

“I’ll say,” Jim murmurs. He walks to the window which is shaded. Outside is a view of the garden, and then the Forge. He turns to look back at Spock. “It’s a nice house, Spock. I’m a little worried I’ll break something, but it’s very nice.” He is still flushed with the heat. Spock walks to a chest cabinet by the window in which he has stored energy drinks in preparation for Jim’s stay. He removes one and holds it up for Jim who grimaces but takes it nonetheless.

“Come,” Spock says. “Mother is waiting.”


	9. Chapter 9

Jim has built many and varied expectations about Spock’s mother. Amanda Grayson doesn’t meet a single one.

He soon realizes that for all the house is grandiose and spartan, the life within it is contained entirely on the top floor. Here the house blossoms from its center. There are three large apartment-like rooms, and a 360-degree verandah of sorts circling the house. Spock leads Jim up the second staircase and into the sunlight before turning into the first of the rooms, walled on three sides by a kind of marble, and open on the fourth. The walls are off-white; the floor here is tiled in mosaic, and the only light is from the open wall. The room is arranged as to feel curiously full, but is as clandestine and uncluttered as the rest of the house except for an ornate writing bureau that looks like it could be a hundred years old or more, and a solitary bookcase, its shelves as burdened by PADDs as it is books. Here, sitting a little way in from the entrance, is Amanda Grayson.

She’s smaller than Jim had assumed, but also exactly the size he’d thought she would be. Her face is familiar to him from old news feeds. She’s aged since then but gracefully. Dressed in light linen robes, her hair is covered by a muslin scarf; Jim thinks he can see blue stains on her fingers - ink, maybe. When Spock approaches with the tea he’s made, he sets the cup and saucer down on a low green side table where Jim can see a PADD and an outdated comm, then kneels to greet his mother. She cups his face gently, guiding him towards her to touch foreheads, an act Spock allows without complaint. “You’re here.” Jim looks away, feeling as though he’s intruding on something tender and private. He stands at parade rest trying to make himself invisible.

Amanda releases her son, then looks expectantly towards Jim. “Mother,” says Spock, getting back to his feet, “may I present Lieutenant Commander James Kirk.” Jim steps forward and bows.

“Jim Kirk, ma’am. Thank you for your kind invitation.”

“Not at all,” she says graciously. “It was Spock’s idea and I was happy to oblige him.” Jim chances a quick glance at Spock; he remains impassive. “And please, call me Amanda. Welcome to our home.” She doesn’t rise; instead she beckons him closer. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come to me,” she says, “these are quite useless except for propping up books and cups of tea.” She gestures to her legs, which is when Jim realizes Amanda is in an old-fashioned mechanical wheelchair.

Many things about the house suddenly make a lot more sense - the old comm unit by the front door, for one, and the way some of the doorways look new - and others immediately become more confusing. The chair in which Amanda is seated has wheels, but isn’t automated. She’s firmly on the ground, but that ground is three stories up.

Amanda gestures to the chair next to her. It must be from Earth, an armchair with a high back that looks like it belongs next to a fireplace. Spock watches as Jim settles, then bows.

“Mother, Jim, if you will excuse me. I must attend to the day’s work as I have not yet had the opportunity.

“Of course, Spock,” Amanda says, her voice quiet and soothing. “Your friend is safe with me.”

“Indeed,” Spock says, before turning and taking his leave.

“Well,” says Amanda, picking up her tea, “tell me how you’ve been, Jim. Has Spock been taking care of you?” She takes a delicate sip; Jim remembers he’s still holding the energy drink and cracks it open. “I must say, I was concerned for you, out there on your own. ShiKahr is a beautiful city, but I can’t deny it’s easier with a guide.”

“It’s certainly been an experience,” he says, stopping to swallow the drink. At his grimace, Amanda gives a quiet laugh.

“It’s flavored with _sash-savas_ ,” she says, “it’s—”

“—an acquired taste,” Jim laughs, too. “You can say that. It’s keeping me going, though.”

They discuss Jim’s time in ShiKahr - the curriculum Spock had put together and Jim’s even progress through the material, the marketplace where he’d met Aberforth for the first time, and the ambassador himself. “Sarek has patience to best a stone,” Amanda remarks, “but I think Aberforth is a particular kind of tide.” All the while, Jim tries to keep his attention on the conversation and not the room, or the house, or his curiosity about his host.

Amanda Grayson’s something of a legend at Starfleet Academy; you can’t talk about xenolinguistics or the Universal Translator without tripping over her name. She’d left Earth almost twenty years ago, but she was still hot property. Looking around her day parlor, Jim can see evidence that she keeps herself busy - open books and sheets of actual paper adorn her desk, putting paid to rumours that her marriage to Sarek of Vulcan had also been the start of her retirement.

“What do you make of T’Pring?” Amanda asks lightly.

Jim looks up from his hands to meet her gaze. It’s clear and unwavering. For all that there’s a delicacy to Amanda, he has no doubt that her core is made of iron. It would have to be to survive out here as long as she had, with only her husband and son for company most of the time. Jim wonders what it would be like - whether he could bear it. Probably not. He’s barely been here a season and he’s already dreaming of the ship he’s going to fly out.

It’s a careful question, seemingly guileless, but Jim knows it’s anything but. He answers just as carefully.

“She’s beautiful,” he says at last, “and sharp.”

“In more ways than one,” says Amanda. She drops her tea cup gently into its saucer; the china chimes. “You could say ’devious’, if you’d like.”

“I could,” says Jim. “I won’t, if it’s all the same to you.”

Amanda ducks her head to hide a grin. “I’m sorry, that was unkind. But you _are_ learning quickly, Commander Kirk. Well done.” She says ’Commander’ the way the professors at the Academy used to say ’Cadet’. He remembers with a start that she had taught there once.

“Ma says that the work you did on the UT should have gotten you the Sato Prize,” Jim says in a rush. “Says the only reason you didn’t was old men and xenophobia.”

Amanda demures. “That’s very kind, but actually it was mostly mathematics. Hardly any linguistics at all.”

“Says the first person in the Federation to piece together a working Standard/Golic dictionary,” Jim says. “Mine’s come in fairly handy recently.” Spock had brought him a hard copy of the dictionary with the caveat that the digitized version was more up-to-date. The pages had been annotated in small, precise Standard, noting where one form was more common than another, or phoneticizing the pronunciation. “I think it might be yours, actually.”

“Fourth folio, probably,” Amanda says. She adjusts her scarves. “That’s the one Spock has.” A warm breeze passes through the room from behind, stirring the muslin around her hair. She eases back into the seat until the back supports her fully. “I think it would be best if you ask your questions now.” She peers at him without malice. “It’s all right. I suspect news from ShiKahr has little reason to travel to Earth, even now.”

Jim’s not sure if he’s overstepping his boundaries; he says as much.

“It’s like taking off a band-aid,” says Amanda. “Best to do it all at once.”

“Do people still use adhesive bandages?” Jim asks, only half in earnest. “Don’t most people have a dermal regen?”

“I think you’ll find things are a little different out here,” Amanda says. “Why don’t I begin at the beginning?”

  
  


Spock arrives shortly after Amanda has finished her story. They’re discussing the vagaries of Vulcan cuisine when he arrives. “Hi,” Jim calls out as he rounds the corner into the room. “We were just talking about what to serve for Christmas dinner.”

“You must inform me of your requirements,” Spock says, “and I shall obtain the provisions before the season commences.”

“Think you can find a bird?” Jim jokes.

“We do not consume meat,” Spock says, rising unerringly to the bait. Jim goes to share a smile with Amanda only to find her gazing curiously at her son.

“A damn shame,” Jim says at last, breaking the moment. “Suppose we’ll have to do without.”

Later he joins Spock in the kitchen on the ground floor where he’s methodically stripping down a vegetable of some sort for dinner.

“I noticed your replicator’s seen better days,” Jim notes. “You make everything from scratch?”

“It is my responsibility to prepare Mother’s meals,” Spock says. “She has no doubt informed you of the reasons for our caution.”

She had.

  
  


Married to Sarek in her early twenties, Amanda had moved to Vulcan when the first attempt at bringing Vulcan into the Federation had fallen through spectacularly. She’d been part of the diplomatic corps on Earth before that, one of the interpreters, and the only one who knew a lick of Golic. She’d caught Sarek’s attention for her proficiency in the language, and kept it when she’d revealed she’d learned from listening to the long-range communicators at Starfleet Command, piecing together the grammar from shipping forecasts and weather reports, and whatever else got flung into the atmosphere from the planet’s surface.

That first stab at an alliance with Vulcan had been troubled from the start. Newly burned from a war with the Romulans, Terrans were deeply cautious about anyone with pointed ears. Meanwhile, on Vulcan, the Syrrabite movement was gaining popularity and with it, a growing isolationist movement. The political climate was fraught with conflict, and in the middle of the tortured debates and fruitless negotiations, Sarek and Amanda had forged an alliance of their own.

“The embassy bombing changed everything,” Amanda recalled. “Terrans felt the Federation’s appetite for trade had invited danger to our door, and Vulcans were insulted at the implication that a small faction of logic extremists could stand in place for all of them.” She hadn’t had much time to decide. When the bombing happened, Sarek was forced to evacuate Earth for his own safety. Amanda had chosen to go with him.

“It wasn’t really much of a choice,” she’d said, looking off into the distance and seeing a different time all together. “We were bonded by then, and, well.” She’d looked at Jim so kindly he thought he might cry. “You’ll learn this yourself. The bond is— well, it’s wonderful. I would have followed him anywhere and I know, if I’d asked, Sarek would have stayed with me on Earth.” She’d shaken her head sadly, then darted a darkly humorous look in Jim’s direction. “I couldn’t bear the thought of him being hurt. I’d have rather cut off both my legs.”

Their return to Vulcan hadn’t been without its own challenges, but Sarek had defended his bondmate both to his family and the High Command. For her part, Amanda had agreed she would do everything she could to assimilate into Sarek’s way of life. It had been a steep learning curve, dogged by missteps and miscommunications. But Amanda hadn’t left behind everything she’d known just to stumble at the first hurdle. “I grit my teeth behind my scarves and I bore it the best I could.”

The next part Jim had already known. It had taken dramatic scientific intervention for Amanda to not only conceive but carry to full term. They lost four fetuses before Spock was conceived, and countless failed embryos. The process of altering Amanda’s eggs to accept Vulcan DNA had been the topic of countless scientific papers and journals. “Not a one of them will tell you how my heart broke every time we lost another,” Amanda had said, her voice breaking. She’d turned aside Jim’s offer of comfort. “No, no, I’m all right, thank you. After all,” she’d added through her tears, “we have Spock.”

She hadn’t been able to carry him for the duration of the pregnancy. Vulcan gestation lasts a full four months longer than the human equivalent. At eight months, the healers had performed a Caesarean to transfer Spock from the warmth of his mother’s body and into a gestational incubator full of synthesised amniotic fluid. She’d watched her baby grow on the ends of any number of wires and tubes until finally he was considered healthy enough to be held.

Naturally, there were protests. Everyone from genetic purists to religious fanatics had something to say about Spock’s existence, and even the weight of Sarek’s name couldn’t protect his son from the disdain and suspicion of his compatriots. There were several attempts on their lives and after one particularly close call, Sarek persuaded Amanda that their apartments in ShiKahr were no longer safe. They moved their lives again, this time to the family seat. “We’ve been here ever since.”

At the time, the house was still populated by Amanda’s in-laws, and a retinue of loyal staff. Loyal, Amanda had pointed out, to Sarek’s parents, a fact they learned the hard way. “They were dosing our food,” Amanda recalled. “Mine and Spock’s. We didn’t discover them for quite some time. We never did find out whether it was Spock’s hybrid genetics that saved him, or his youth, but he metabolised the toxins. They had almost no effect on him. I would go days feeling completely fine, and then I’d be violently ill, on and on in a cycle. My father-in-law suggested it was an adverse reaction to Vulcan’s thin atmosphere. Wishful thinking, perhaps.”

By then, Spock had been old enough to attend the Learning Center and Amanda had obtained a position at the Vulcan Heritage Center where she assisted in the translation of artifacts marked in High Golic to Modern. Sarek would come and go from the council, and was still required to attend to duties offworld. They had decided between them that Spock was too young to safely take with them, so Amanda remained in ShiKahr while Sarek was sent to far-flung posts to continue his diplomatic efforts. He’d purchased a vee for Amanda so she could travel swiftly between the city and their home, and she’d drive with Spock early in the morning before returning with him in tow in the late afternoon.

“I’ll never know whether it was luck that he wasn’t with me that day.” Amanda had long harbored suspicions that she was at the tender mercies of Sarek’s parents. His mother was a formidable but acutely practical woman who had mostly accepted Amanda’s human idiosyncrasies, but it was no secret that Sarek’s choice in Amanda had been a blow to his father’s pride. “If they had a hand in it, I don’t know, but it could explain why Spock was saved.”

The newest vee models came with guidance and automation systems, as well as several safety enhancements, including additional dampeners and a secondary shield. Amanda had thought Sarek was overdoing it a bit - the vee was beautiful, but sort of clunky at the same time, and she’d been certain she’d never need the bells and whistles. In hindsight, he’d been right. If the shields had kicked in when they were supposed to, Amanda would have walked away from the collision unscathed. As it was, when the propulsion unit took on a mind of its own, she’d tried to engage the braking mechanism only to find it unresponsive.

“I can barely remember,” Amanda had said when recalling the events to Jim, “something fell or burst or something, and I started to fall out of the air.” The thrusters had launched automatically, taking over from the failing anti-grav, but the initial skipping impact with the ground had knocked out one side, so the vee had spiraled out, eventually colliding with an automated transport heading in the opposite direction.

It had been a passenger transport, maybe ten people in all. The transport’s shields had protected them from the worst of the damage, but Amanda hadn’t been so lucky.

“I must have screamed all the way along the bond,” she’d said. “Sarek felt it light years away.” By the time he’d returned to Vulcan, Amanda had been taken to the medical facility where Spock had been born eight years before. She’d been there for four days, and the healers were concerned. The nerve regen wasn’t working the way it ought to. “There’d been such a large buildup of neurotoxins in my bloodstream that the regen couldn’t do its job, and the damage—” The damage had meant Amanda couldn’t be supplied with the necessary antitoxin in fear of further damaging the nerve endings. The healers managed to stabilize her condition, saving her from massive internal bleeding, and they’d worked tirelessly to regrow the bones in her ribcage.

For the second time in her relatively young age, Amanda’s life was completely inverted. Sarek had thrown out the staff, causing a disagreement with his father that still hasn’t been reconciled. Later analysis of the wreckage indicated that Amanda had not been at fault - someone had tampered with the onboard computer which had triggered the failure that had resulted in the crash. It was likely that the sabotage had begun at home.

So the house is strange.

There are no working replicators; all the food is bought and freshly prepared by Spock. Sarek makes full use of his privileges as ambassador and only ever travels with his trusted driver. They don’t own a vee, or any other automated mechanisms. Amanda had refused the use of a hover chair, unable to put her life under the control of a computer ever again, and so she wheels herself about in a chair that looks like it’s maybe two hundred years old, if not more. There’s only one dermal regen, and it’s battery-operated with no access to any kind of communications array. It doesn’t receive the same updates as the newer models, but it also can’t be corrupted without direct interference. There’s one outdated comm that uses radio waves to operate; there are bells in the walls.

Sarek and Spock had between them managed Amanda’s care for the past twenty-three years with occasional assistance from Healer T’Vot, Amanda’s primary physician following the accident. Any disagreement between them about Sarek’s high expectations or Spock’s human emotionalism had long been placed by the wayside. Theirs was a quiet home, cavernous in some respects, but suffused with care.

  
  


“The tea Mother drinks,” Spock says, using a clay utensil to pulverise the vegetable he’s stripped until it’s thick and soft under his hands, “contains pulp made from the root of plomeek. It contains a naturally occuring analgesic in minute doses.”

“You’re giving her painkillers?” Jim asks.

“Yes,” Spock replies. “A temporary balm. The damage to Mother’s spinal cord afflicts her with chronic pain. The tea is to alleviate her discomfort.”

Jim thinks about all the ways in which Spock sets his own needs second, and how he never seems to want anything in return. No doubt he thinks it’s only logical to assist in the care of those you love - that a task done out of necessity is done for its own sake. He thinks about how Spock had given up the opportunity to be the one to test his own hypotheses so he could sit with Jim every day, making sure he’s eating and hydrating, and refusing to let him fall flat on his face in front of the diplomatic assembly even though Jim’s a stranger come from lightyears away to marry the woman Spock’s been bonded with since childhood. He thinks about how Spock had been coming to his digs every day since they began their arrangement, arriving before sun-up, with no indication that he’d been up for hours already, preparing breakfast and lunch for his mother before he’d arrived. All that, and a million other kindnesses, each one unwitnessed and so unremarked upon.

Jim comes round the bench and stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Spock. “Show me what you’re doing.”

“There is no need,” Spock protests.

Jim squeezes his shoulder.

“Spock. Let me help.”

  
  


They establish a new routine. Spock wakes first, setting aside the early hours of the day for meditation before rising to his feet and easing into the yogic forms of _Suus Mahna_. He wakes Jim when he’s done and the two of them prepare the morning’s meal, breaking fast with Sarek and Amanda before heading out to the covered garden to spar. It’s too hot to go for a run outside the grounds, but Spock makes Jim climb the walls until he can do it in under a minute. Then they separate to begin the day’s work.

Jim’s still working through the syllabus Spock put together, but now he has additions from Amanda’s library, a vast room on the opposing side of the first floor where bookshelves line the walls floor to ceiling. Spock walks in on him sleeping underneath the pages of an open book twice before he starts bringing his PADDs to work in there with Jim. It might be Jim’s favorite place in the whole house.

After lunch, which Jim helps Spock to make, Jim sits with Amanda and covers his morning’s readings. She’s a fantastic teacher, firm but kind, poking holes in his arguments and encouraging his hypotheses. Some days she’s off her game; he’ll get there and she’ll be listless, turned away from her desk, or gazing off into the distance, an open book forgotten on her lap. The pain makes it hard for her to concentrate on her work which is painstaking in its progress, and the soporific effects of the tea sometimes mix with her meds making her drowsy and unfocused. Jim tries to take the variance in his stride and Spock often finds him sitting in Amanda’s day parlor gesticulating wildly as he tries to convey his thoughts succinctly in Golic.

“He learns fast,” Amanda says to Spock when he comes to retrieve Jim before the evening meal.

“On occasion,” says Spock, reaching over to retrieve a half-empty bottle of energy booster left forgotten on the sideboard and pointedly handing it back to a sheepish Jim.

It soon becomes clear that Amanda has been wanting for conversation, not because her son and husband don’t indulge her, but because the parsing of ideas in Standard is different than in Vulcan, and it doesn’t matter how fluent a person is, thought tends to flow more easily in the mother tongue. A few days in, Jim finally gets up the nerve to ask her about the papers on her desk. And they are papers - Amanda has a preference for writing by hand, which has less to do with technology and more to do with habit. “My father was a big fan of calligraphy,” Amanda reminisces, “so it was important to him that we knew how to write. By the time I got to college, it was just easier for me to throw things down in shorthand than it was to type them up all over again, and that way I could reference the text and write at the same time.”

“So that’s where Spock gets it from,” Jim says, recalling how Spock would often cross-reference multiple PADDs at once, sometimes seeming to read two simultaneously.

“I think that’s more the Vulcan in him than my influence,” Amanda says with a smile, “but his handwriting is lovely. You should see his Standard.”

The paperwork, it turns out, covers a number of topics. When she’d left the Cultural Center, Amanda had been working on historical forms - Ancient and High Golic - and linking them back to Modern, assisting both with the translations and also building up a working data bank that she was sharing with colleagues across the planet. Unlike Standard, which deviated significantly from its Ancient forms, Golic had a more direct relationship, but dialects varied between the continents, and Amanda’s research revealed there was some indication that the differing rates at which Surakian philosophy was adopted had a large role to play in the way Golic had been adapted. Amanda had theorized that the different dialectal forms could be used to date when the Reformation reached each continent and, more specifically, each region and tribe. So much of Surak’s history was passed on verbally that it was the kind of work that could have far-reaching consequences for Vulcan.

Amanda seems almost embarrassed about it.

“Well, it’s taken some time to pull together,” she says, “and I don’t have access to the same resources I once did.”

“You can’t get what you need from the Cultural Center?” Jim asks.

Amanda looks away. “Perhaps. I try not to disturb them.” She runs a hand distractedly over the pages on her bureau. “It’s more of a hobby these days than a vocation.”

“Some hobby,” Jim says, looking over what looks like annals upon annals of work. “What do you do with all of this?”

“Oh, you know,” she says, watching as Jim scours her bookshelves. “Add to it. Take it down for dusting.”

Jim casts her a look over his shoulder. “I can think of twenty people off the top of my head who would kill to get their hands on the latest instalment of the Grayson papers,” he says. “There must be someone out there who’s interested in what you’ve got here.”

“I doubt it; I have niche interests,” Amanda says, before drawing him back to his seat. “Don’t think I’ll let you distract me, Commander,” she says in her professorial way. “I know you haven’t been practicing those conjugations.” He makes his way back to her side, but when he comes back the next day, he’s pleased to see that someone has begun to visibly re-order the papers.

  
  


At Christmas, Amanda forbids the men in the house from utilizing the day for “—any productive pursuit. I don’t want to see a single PADD, book or scroll that isn’t being used for diversionary pleasures.” She looks to Sarek as she says this last part, and he strides over unhurriedly to offer the _ozh’esta_ in acquiescence. Sarek is a silent but palpable presence in the house. Jim comes across him sometimes when he’s running between the kitchen and Amanda’s parlor. They never speak to another except to offer practiced politenesses. Jim’s relieved. He still doesn’t know what to make of the man who may or may not be the closest thing Vulcan has to nobility.

“No, really,” Jim says urgently on a holo-com to Bones, “I think they may actually be some kind of royalty.” It’s the tail end of Christmas day. Jim had spent the morning decorating the day parlor with homemade garlands under Amanda’s direction, before he’d joined Spock as he cooked a Vulcan roast - a mix of Vulcan vegetables and side dishes in deference to the family’s dietary needs. Spock had tried to teach him a logic puzzle called _kal-toh_ that was some kind of strategy game that Jim hadn’t worked out yet, but that Sarek unsurprisingly excelled at. In an effort not to have the night derailed, Amanda had led them in a round of carol singing. Sarek had declined to participate, though he remained seated with his family, and Spock had brought out his lute to accompany them. The night had ended with Spock singing a traditional Vulcan song - a fable about a quick-witted Lara bird that overcame many obstacles to find its mate.

  
[Christmas with the S'chn T'gai family](https://i.ibb.co/GWrhy5Y/xmasbw.jpg) by [Em95](station-station.tumblr.com) (click to enlarge)

He’s in the middle of the desert and even the thought of a roaring fire is enough to make him want to pass out, but it’s the most festive Christmas he’s celebrated since accepting his commission. It’s also the first time in years Jim’s passed a Christmas sober. The same can’t be said of Bones who toasted to his good health with a shot of Saurian brandy when the call connected.

“You’re living with Sarek of Vulcan,” Bones says, as though Jim doesn’t already know that. “Tell me you know who his mother is.”

Jim doesn’t, but that doesn’t stop him from groaning in frustration.

Bones has been surprisingly taciturn on hearing the news that Jim has moved in with Spock’s family for the season. They haven’t managed a holo in some time - the Farragut has been out of communications range, and the best they could manage was to send a message to the nearest subspace generator in the hopes the signal would eventually make its way to its intended destination. It means Bones has to get all of his fussing in over a short burst, not knowing when the next opportunity will present itself. Jim is getting used to receiving fragmented scoldings with little-to-no punctuation.

    

_TAKE YOUR DAMN TRI OX MAN_

“Jim, I know you took Modern History in the Alpha Quadrant,” Bones says, “it’s a basic requirement.”

“Sure,” Jim replies, “I aced it too.”

“Then there’s no way you don’t know who T’Pau is.”

It takes him a minute to get there but when he does, Jim sits up from where he’s been doing crunches. “Are you telling me that T’Pau is one of Spock’s grandparents?”

“Give the boy a prize,” says Bones. “You know they reckon they can trace the line back to Surak?”

Jim’s dumbfounded. “He actually is royalty.”

“I’m hearing a lot about this Spock,” Bones says, “and not a lot about T’Pring. You didn’t forget which one you’re there to marry, did you?”

In actual fact, the more time Jim spends away from ShiKahr, the less he remembers what’s waiting for him there. He has no idea where T’Pring is confined for the season. He doesn’t have her comm, and he’s not sure she’d answer even if he did.

Bones knows a little of what’s going on. Jim’s first night at Spock’s home he’d sent off an encrypted burst explaining where he was and why. He’d also told Bones that everything was copacetic: the wedding was still on and T’Pring was on board. Bones had voiced his skepticism.

    

_HORSESHIT PULL YOUR FINGER OUT_

“Now hang on,” Bones exclaims, catching sight of Jim’s face, “you’d better be careful out there, Jim. Keep your eye on the prize and don’t set down til sundown, do you hear me?”

“Where do you come up with these things?” Jim asks.

Bones talks straight over him. “You are there for one reason and one reason only: to marry this girl,” he says, jabbing his finger at Jim; he swears he can feel it strike his breastbone. “After that you can get on your shiny new ship, jet off into the blue, and do whatever you want.”

“I thought you said I had to remember I was marrying a real person, Bones,” Jim says, lying back down to start his crunches again. He’d gotten to twenty, maybe twenty five? He starts his count again.

“Yes, well, she sounds like a piece of work,” Bones mutters before he rallies, “—but that’s no excuse! For better or worse, til death do you part. It means something. A marriage isn’t something to play around with Jim, it’s serious business.”

“Mine more than most,” Jim says, thinking of Aberforth and the currently paused talks.

“I’m just saying, don’t get distracted,” Bones says with a heavy sigh. “You know how you get.”

The thing is, Jim does know. Once he sets his eye on someone, it’s hard for him to shake off his interest. He’d almost married Ruth Callaghan while he was at the Academy, and it had nearly cost him his passing grade. The problem is, Jim almost nevers thinks about T’Pring. He’s not even having the stress dreams anymore; the deal they struck at the gathering has allayed his anxiety. Now this marriage is just something he has to do, another box to check. Whatever hopes he’d had, romantic notions, dreams - they’ve gone, and he’s made peace with it. If there’s such a thing as a no-win scenario, this isn’t it.

“Can you look something up for me?” Jim asks, coming back up to a seated position. “It’s a neurotoxin, I think it’s some sort of plant extract.” He swipes across his PADD. “I’m sending it to you now.”

At the change in his tone of voice, Bones straightens and grabs his PADD. “Got it.” Scrolling through the data Jim’s sent, he gives out a long, low whistle. “Yeah, that’s a doozy. But this isn’t from a plant. It might have started out that way, but it’s been modified.”

“What?” Jim picks up his PADD to start scrolling as well. “How can you tell?”

“There’s synthetic markers in here.” He looks up. “The hell do you need this for?”

“I don’t,” Jim says. “A friend of mine was dosed with it and it ended up being a complicating factor in a later surgery.”

“A friend, huh?” Bones sounds appropriately skeptical. “Wouldn’t be a female friend, would it?”

“Actually, she is,” Jim says, trying to play it cool, “but it’s not what you think.” He pauses. “So if it’s synthetic, then you could reverse the effects?”

Bones frowns. “Maybe, it’s possible. Depends where the damage was.”

“Spinal cord.”

Bones’ head shoots up like a ricochet. “What have you gotten into, Jim?”

“Nothing, can you just—” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just take a look and let me know what you think. It’s important.” He’s reluctant to share Amanda’s story without her say-so, but he also needs Bones’ help. Medicine isn’t Jim’s field; he needs the assist.

Something of his desperation must come through over the holo-com because Bones doesn’t prod further. “You’d better be taking care of yourself out there, Jim. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Jim quirks a smile. “You’d be impressed if you could see me now— no, I’m not sending you my vitals, stop asking.” He hugs his knees to his chest. “I’m doing all right. Spock’s got me exercising regularly and eating my vegetables. Makes sure I don’t skip my dose.” He looks up with a wry smile. “Everything’s fine. Tell me about Jo. You spoken to her today?”

Bones talks his ear off about his daughter for the next half hour before a yellow alert sounds and he has to sign off. “Listen,” he says, “eyes on the prize, remember?”

“Sun up, sun down, something, something,” Jim says, waving Bones off. “Go, you’re needed. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, you damn fool.” The holo cuts off, plunging the room into darkness.

Jim takes his time putting his stuff away for the night. He doesn’t bother with the lamp; there’s enough light reflecting off T’Khut that he can walk around without hitting any walls. His shoes might be another issue, he muses, kicking one over. Luckily Spock’s not there to look at him pointedly.

He moves his shoes against the wall.

When he straightens, a movement outside catches his eye. If he squints a little he can see the faint glow of a PADD screen with the brightness turned all the way down. Sarek’s upstairs with Amanda, which means it must be Spock. Jim thinks about heading down to maybe keep him company, but then he remembers Bones’ advice.

Eyes on the prize. No distractions.

He goes to bed.


	10. Chapter 10

_Yonuk mazhiv_ arrives slowly, then all at once.

For weeks the heat has been steadily rising, the air thin and arid, prone to static discharge. When the mounting high pressure breaks at last, great gusts of wind roll towards ShiKahr from the Forge, sweeping up everything in its path, rocks and sand and soil all whipped along in a frenetic dance. Pushed along volcanic paths, the debris scatters and skips, creating uninhabitable conditions. The first storm of the season begins with a remembered echo.

Spock and Jim are preparing the midday meal when Sarek emerges from his study, heading for the stairs in the measured stride he uses when he makes haste. Spock and Jim watch him go before Spock hears what prompted his father’s abrupt departure: a growing thrum in the distance. Spock puts down the knife he is holding, prompting confusion from Jim.

“What’s going on?”

Sarek is bringing Amanda back to the first floor of the house. Although there is adequate shielding around the house, Spock and his father operate with an abundance of caution. For days now, Sarek has been preparing for Amanda’s twice-yearly relocation, securing heavy shutters and moving some of her more frequently-used possessions. The windows on the first floor will allow for ample opportunity to view the storms but with the added protection of tempered glass between them and the shields.

That is where Spock meets his parents, Jim in tow. The first storm of the season has long been a source of fascination for Spock. He understands the science which causes the phenomenon, but has yet to become accustomed to its manifestation. From their vantage point on the first floor, the gathered household watches the plume approach, thick clouds, so vague as to seem impossibly soft. His mother had once described the view as a blanket unrolling; though Spock would prefer not to employ metaphor he cannot deny the accuracy of his mother’s words. But the view is deceptive. When the debris strikes the shields it becomes apparent that the storm is not one entity but a commonwealth of individual fragments, moving asynchronously but as a roiling, tumultuous whole. There is, indeed, strength in numbers.

Next to Spock, Jim flinches as the shields begin to spark, the first scatter of stones ricocheting away. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, watching as the storm blocks out the light, the hum rising to a resounding roar.

It has begun.

  
  


The adverse conditions disrupt the pattern of life in the S’chn T’gai house. Unable to venture outdoors for very long, Spock and Jim forgo sparring in favor of independent regimes. So it is that when Spock rises to practice _Suus Mahna_ , Jim begins a number of floor exercises to strengthen his core and maintain his general fitness.

Amanda’s rest is often disturbed by the storms at night, so she doesn’t wake until later in the morning, meaning Spock is able to delay preparing breakfast long enough to prepare lunch at the same time. As Sarek is home for the duration, he assists Amanda with her physiotherapy, a task which usually falls to Spock, thus allowing him recourse to complete his household tasks in full before turning to his research for the day.

With the shutters closed, the house is dark most of the day. The storms leave behind a patina of dust that adheres to everything it comes into contact with, and even when the winds drop, motes hang lightly in the air. The world takes on a burnished hue, soft and indistinct. At the height of a storm, the house rattles, and the light is eked away as though night has come upon them in the middle of the day. Previously distinct sounds take on a dampened character. Jim describes the days as having a dreamlike quality, a comparison for which Spock has no basis. He is content to accept his mother’s confirmation of the same, and is given to wonder once again why the human brain conjures ill-defined images while at rest.

Jim becomes restless, though he is never less than courteous. Spock notes a 14.67% decrease in his efficiency, something he had never had cause to question before. If T’Pring under duress brings to mind a caged le-matya, then Jim is a sehlat, drowsy in his discontent and unable to settle. After three days, Spock decides he must intervene.

“Enough,” Spock says, standing from behind the desk.

Jim startles from his repose. He is lounging on a low, long seat Spock’s father had purchased for his mother, limbs overflowing its confines on all sides. Made of oak from Earth and upholstered in velvet fabric, Spock had not understood its function as a piece of furniture until he had come upon Jim in the library, stretched out across its length, asleep with a book dangling precariously from one hand.

“Whu—”

“Come with me,” Spock says, leaving the room without checking to confirm Jim is behind him. Spock has come to rely on specific certainties with respect to Jim: if challenged, he will rally; if intrigued, he will question; if Spock leads, he will follow.

Spock leads him to a long, open room at the front of the first floor of the house. On a clear day it is possible to see ShiKahr from the window. As it is, Spock can see the boundaries of the property and no further.

Long chests, much like those he had filled with bottles of energy supplements in the room Jim occupies, line the walls beneath the windows. It is from one of these Spock retrieves two woven mats before returning to the center of the room to lay them parallel to one another. He folds his legs beneath him to sit cross-legged on the mat closest to his window before looking up at Jim, who has yet to follow suit.

“Sit,” says Spock.

That Jim acquiesces without his customary protest is enough to convince Spock of the necessity of his actions. Spock had intended to begin their training in a few weeks, when the worst of the storms had passed, but in light of Jim’s mounting tension, Spock is content to accelerate his plans.

“At the _kal’i’farr_ , the healer present shall join your mind with T’Pring’s,” Spock says. “In order to vouchsafe your privacy and T’Pring’s, you must learn to shield your thoughts.” Jim runs a distracted hand across the floor between them, fingers worrying at the weave. He does not raise his head to meet Spock’s gaze.

“Vulcans begin the mental disciplines at a young age. T’Pring will be well-equipped to assist you in your own endeavors. However,” he adds, “I believe it will be to your benefit to begin the practice sooner so as to give you greater comfort when the time for bonding arrives.”

Jim swallows thickly, nodding. He debates the matter with himself before nodding again, pulling his shoulders back to look Spock in the eye. Despite this show of calm resignation, he is cautious. “Do you think I can do this?” he asks. “I could barely remember to do that breathing thing we did before the party.”

“I am confident in your ability to overcome that to which you put your mind,” Spock says. Jim leans back in surprise. “Jim, you have shown great willingness to adapt to new circumstances and new ideas. Your commission with Starfleet indicates that you have a keen intellect and a tenacious curiosity.” He pauses, assessing Jim carefully. “There has been no indication that you will not apply both to the next task that is asked of you.”

This time when Jim settles, he seems calmer. The tension doesn’t fall from him like a weight but like a banner, as though he is pulled up from a low depth. He takes a breath, nodding once more. “Thanks, Spock.” His hand gestures from against his knee. “Where do we start?”

They begin with meditation. It is Spock’s assessment of Jim’s often palpable energy that silent examination of the thoughts that pass through his mind will not be of great benefit to him. Such practices are the Vulcan way, but Jim is not Vulcan. To achieve success in this endeavor, he will need to approach it as that which he is: a human. He fidgets out of a surfeit of energy and, when anxious, a surfeit of thought. It is not Spock’s intent to ask Jim to be other than that which is in his nature. He need not empty his mind, only slow it long enough to assess each thought with clarity.

“In the lodgings procured for you by the Vulcan High Command,” Spock begins, speaking softly, “there was a communal space allocated for the use of all who adjourn there. Recall our time there. Recall the bench, the heat, the bower. Hold in your mind the configuration of the lodgings, which room appears first and which is furthest from the door.” Jim closes his eyes, wrists lying lightly on his knees. Whether the choice is conscious, Spock is unaware, but Jim brings himself to match Spock’s breaths. He is concentrating.

“Hold yourself within this place. Tell me where you are.”

“I’m standing at the back door,” Jim murmurs. “The door is open. I’m facing into the room. It’s hot outside. You’re working at the table. You’re not looking at me.”

Spock is surprised to find himself within Jim’s recollection, but reminds himself that as a human, Jim has interpreted the exercise as a request to rebuild his memory. Spock had thought Jim would reconstruct the room in stasis, as he had, but he had recalled it as it was: moving with life.

“You are standing by the door,” Spock repeats, “the door is open. Without removing yourself from the room, tell me what you are able to hear, here, in this house.”

Jim falters momentarily; Spock feels his mind skip even at a remove, his breathing falling out of sync. “Focus,” he instructs. “Your mind is in ShiKahr; your body is here in this house. What do you hear?”

For a short while, Jim does not answer. Before long, his breathing evens out to match Spock’s once more. He draws his bottom lip briefly into his mouth on an inhale.

“I can hear someone moving upstairs, your father probably. He must have gone to fetch something, because he’s coming up the hall, back towards Amanda’s rooms.” He tilts his head a fraction. “I can hear the wind; I can hear a kind of—” he pauses, “—like a, it’s— like a scattering, sharp, electric bursts.” He nods once more in understanding. “It’s the shields. I can hear that one shutter at the back of the house that doesn’t sit right. It’s knocking against the wall.” He taps the ground arrhythmically, knuckles clean against the tile. “Your mother is... singing?” A small smile graces Jim’s face, quiet and wondering.

“What do you see?” Spock asks.

“The replicator; light through the front door. Your PADD on the table. I’ve left a hypo out, and a PADD. It’s mid-afternoon. You’re working through something. Every now and then a shadow passes over the door.”

“Hold both in your mind,” Spock instructs, “the sounds of the house around you; the sight of the lodgings we left behind. Be there and also here.” He does the same. He can see the lodgings clearly; the sounds are those of the house. He can hear the echo of absent footfalls; see the movement of long-past shadows.

“This,” Spock says, “is the second level of meditation.”

  
  


When Jim emerges from the light trance, he is noticeably calmer. His body is loose, his face soft if not a little worn. Through Jim, Spock is also learning new information. He had not known before now that an expression could be anything more than what it is, but he has learned it can be as delicate as a song, and as brittle as aged clay, and that both things can be true at once.

“Are you content?” Spock asks.

Jim reaches forward with a single finger, tracing some unseen line along Spock’s left knee. “Yes,” he murmurs with a smile, “I’m good.”

  
  


They continue in this way every day for a week, adding the practice to their schedules with ease. After lunch, they make their way up the stairs to the meditation chamber, and they begin the exercises. Over the course of the week, Spock asks Jim to hold more ideas in his mind at the same time. He asks him to recall events that have not happened, and places he has not seen. Each time, Jim begins by fighting the contradiction before he adapts to the new configuration. Spock would not describe the action as acceptance. Jim, on the whole, is not overly accepting, preferring - where called for - to make exceptions. He does not so much reconcile the different stimuli he is asked to hold in his mind so much as stretch to accommodate them. In this way, Spock learns much about the kind of man Jim is. He is not dissatisfied with the knowledge.

At the end of the week, Jim throws himself happily to the ground, rocking side to side as he brings his legs under him to be seated. “We’ve done a lot of juggling,” he says, watching Spock fold himself to the ground with considerably fewer theatrics. “You know, hold three things in your head, balance a fourth.” Spock himself has never juggled; as the act has no purpose, there is no logic in doing so. However, he can readily admit that Jim’s description is apt. “But I’ve got to know: what does any of it have to do with shielding?”

“To shield your thoughts, you must be able to distinguish them from another’s,” Spock says. “This is easy enough. Another mind will not be as well known to you as your own, and its presence will be simple to detect. However,” he adds, “to erect a shield is one act; to choose which thoughts to shield is another. To choose which thoughts to share is itself a third. You must be able to hold three ideas in your mind, and construct a fourth all without losing the thread of any of them.”

“I get it,” Jim says, “it’s like weight training. You start small, work your way up.” Spock frowns. “No, really, I understand. So when do I actually start building a shield?”

“Had a preliminary bond been formed as part of your _koon’ul_ ,” Spock says, “we would have been able to test your shielding against it much sooner. However, as that is not possible, I propose that we form a shallow meld - if you will allow me - and I can assist you in building your shields.”

The ease slips from Jim’s spine. “Ah, Spock,” he says with a slow roll of his head, “I don’t know about that.”

“You are not required to comply,” says Spock, “but this is the easiest method to demonstrate the technique.”

“How does it work?” Jim asks.

“I will place my fingers against the meld points on your face and commence a meld,” Spock explains. “I will not look upon your thoughts. Instead, I will welcome you into my mind where we can begin.” He clarifies, “There will be no bond, no lasting impressions save what you recall of the experience.” Jim is still wary, his previous good humor now lost. “Jim,” Spock says, leaning forward to catch his gaze. “We need not continue. I defer to your needs.”

Jim snorts a laugh, a quick exhalation of air that conveys something other than humor; Spock has yet to decipher it. “I suppose I’ve got to do it some time,” he says, looking at the wall over Spock’s shoulder. “Better it’s with you than on my wedding day, right?” He looks up at Spock, quietly resigned. “I apologize in advance if it’s a mess up here,” he gestures vaguely to his head. “I don’t normally have people over.”

“Are you prepared?” Spock asks, disregarding Jim’s last comment as spurious.

“As much as I’ll ever be,” Jim mutters before inching closer. He bumps into Spock’s knee with his own, then grabs his legs in one hand to bring his rear forward before settling. “All right, I’m good. Let’s do it.”

Spock raises his hand to Jim’s face, fingers spread to meet his meld points along his temple and jaw. This close Spock can smell the salt on Jim’s skin and can see the fine tremor of his lashes as his breathing accelerates. Spock encourages Jim to lean forward, bringing their foreheads together gently.

“My mind to your mind,” he intones, directly his psionic energy towards Jim. “My thoughts to your thoughts.”

Inside the meld, Spock constructs the familiar layout of Jim’s lodgings in ShiKahr. The bright warmth of Jim’s mind is close at hand. Spock draws him near, pictures his face. And then they are together.

“Why does it look like my digs?” Jim asks.

“I believed it would be beneficial to recreate a space familiar to you,” says Spock. “A visual representation is easier for the mind to comprehend. I chose your lodgings as they have been the primary locus of your meditative practice.”

Jim quirks a smile in his direction. “Neat trick.”

“Indeed.” Spock carries himself to the table and seats himself at his customary location. “We will begin with a simple exercise. Walk outside to the communal clearing,” he instructs, “and when you wish to shield yourself from my mind, close the door.”

Jim hesitates. “If this is your mind, won’t shutting the door cut the line?”

“You misunderstand,” says Spock, “I have constructed this space, yes, but it is built between us. Its foundations are in both our minds. We can choose to meet here together, or choose to depart each to our own corners, but as long as we maintain the meld, no ’line’ can be cut.”

“It’s weird that I can hear you put that in quotes, Spock,” Jim says. From here Spock can feel the warmth of his jocularity. “I can always hear when you do that but now it’s like I can see you penning them in.”

“The door,” Spock reminds him.

“Right.”

Jim looks around, contemplating his options, before he slaps his legs and walks outdoors. “Damn, it’s hot.”

“That is your perception,” Spock reminds him. “This place is merely a construct. If you do not wish to be hot, do not recall the temperature.”

“Huh,” Spock watches as Jim seats himself on the bench outside. “That worked.” He squints at Spock. “Now what?”

Spock swings his legs around to tuck them under the table. “When you are ready, imagine the door closing. Once it is shut, you will be alone with your thoughts. Then you may imagine the door is open, and I will see you once more.”

“All right, sure. Door closed is shields up, door open is shields down.” He is nodding to himself, gaze darting about the construction. In a private corner of his mind, Spock wonders whether Jim pictures the lodgings as they were or whether now he has been transplanted to another memory.

Slowly, the door swings shut. Spock is acutely aware that Jim’s mind is still present, but he is unable to detect his thoughts. Spock feels a chill even as he feels Jim’s spike of triumph. The door reopens. Jim is still seated, but now he’s smiling. “I did it, right? It worked?”

“Yes, Jim,” Spock says. “I commend you.”

“Wow, you actually mean that,” Jim says; Spock can sense his confusion. His own rises to meet it. “No, I just— I can’t always tell whether you’re being sincere. I know, I know, Vulcans don’t lie. Apparently, you don’t.”

He swings the door open and shut twice more before Spock detects his fatigue.

“I will end the meld now,” Spock says. “Have pride in yourself,” he adds. “You have performed well today.”

When Spock opens his eyes, Jim seems unfocused. He looks up to meet Spock’s gaze, their heads still close. Jim’s breath warms the air between them. “That? Was amazing.” He speaks softly, as though to raise his voice would disrupt a fragile quiet. His eyes, Spock notes, are a most remarkable color.

Jim flinches, dislodging Spock’s hand. He flushes, pushing himself to his feet. “Well, ah, that was good, right? I did good.”

“Indeed,” says Spock, rising to his feet. “You did very well.”

Jim grins, but it does not reach his eyes.

“Right, well, I’m going to, ah—” he gestures vaguely towards the door. “I mean, I need to wash up. Before dinner.”

Spock watches Jim depart, unable to account for his aberrant behavior. He lifts the mats from where they lie and returns them to the chest. He is unable to say why, but he is discontent.


	11. Chapter 11

Eyes on the prize, Jim reminds himself. No distractions.

  
  


After the meld, it’s harder to remember how to behave around Spock. It’s not that Jim’s been doing a great job of it one the whole - he can’t help it, he’s a tactile person - but there’s something about sitting nose-to-nose with Spock while he brings their minds together that breaks the dam. It isn’t just the intimacy of it all - if anything intimacy can turn him shy. It’s that in the confines of their shared mental space, Jim gets glimpses of Spock that he’d only been able to guess at before. He does feel, Jim realizes, deeply, even, and he doesn’t feel the need to shield that from Jim. The trust involved is— it’s almost unbelievable. Spock is so private. Jim finds himself relaxing as though he’s back home, like maybe there’s a place here where not everything is alien.

If Sarek and Amanda notice the change, they don’t remark on it, though Jim sees Amanda shoot Sarek a knowing look across their evening meal one night when Jim and Spock have been debating the relative merits of— god, something or other, Jim hardly remembers. He’d been having fun, though, that much had been true.

They don’t meld every day. Spock’s concerned about how Jim’s mind’s taking the whole thing, and it’s true, sometimes he gets headaches at the end of the day, nothing spectacular, but not exactly a fun time. Spock notices him wincing one afternoon while they’re preparing dinner, and he reaches out. “Allow me?” Jim nods, not really knowing what to expect, but Spock presses his fingers lightly against his temple and like a cool breeze, the hot, angry tension dissipates.

“What was that?” Jim asks, almost dizzy with relief.

“I merely dispersed the pressure within your cranium,” he says, like it’s that easy. Maybe it is for him. The more they practice shielding, the more Jim realizes that Spock’s psionic strength is maybe above average. He chances asking Amanda about it one day when the two of them are alone. A storm last passed over half an hour before and another is on the horizon, so Sarek and Spock have ventured outdoors to see if they can do anything about that one shutter that won’t quit rattling. The noise sets his teeth on edge, it’s so loud and irregular. Down in the library he can’t always hear it but out here, where Amanda is, it must be constant and grating.

“I do hope they manage to fix it,” she confides with a smile, “or else I might have to go rip it off its hinges myself.”

It’s not the most natural of questions, but Spock must have said something about what they do all afternoon, because Amanda isn’t surprised - or, if she is, she hides it with admirably Vulcan restraint. He doesn’t think so, though; her eyes always give her away. Come to think of it, the same could be said of Spock. The more time they spend together, the easier it is for Jim to read the lines on his face - the angle of his brow, or the twitch of his lips. Spock’s more of a book than Jim had realized. There’s pages and pages to get lost in; he’s barely seen the blurb.

“Spock’s brain,” he starts before the words catch up with him and he rolls his eyes dramatically. It’s a wonder anybody ever lets him speak for himself.

Amanda laughs. “It’s still there, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve heard you can take a Vulcan’s brain out of their body and they’ll continue to function autonomously,” she says, adding _sotto voce_ , “sometimes I think maybe that’s how they pick whether you can join the council.”

Jim grins, his abashment fading. Amanda’s a funny lady. A little more wicked than he’d expected on first sight, even when she’d baited him over T’Pring. It’s a forgivable trait, he thinks, considering what she’s been through.

Outside, the shutter clatters; the wind’s increasing. He looks in the direction of the noise, then remembers why he’s there. There’s not a lot of time before Spock returns. “Is he—” he stops, tries to rephrase. “He’s fairly strong, isn’t he? Mentally, I mean.”

“My son is possessed of great mental fortitude,” Amanda says, enunciating the consonants in a way that makes it clear she’s aping the Vulcans she’s come into contact with. “But that’s not what you mean, is it?” She smiles, rearranging her scarves. Today she’s wearing one in ochre that brings a warmth to her skin. “His psi-rating is uncommonly high,” she says, voice gentling, “even for a Vulcan. There are things he found so difficult as a child, but anything that built on a natural Vulcan advantage and he was always miles ahead of the rest of them.” Her gaze turns sad. “He was such a clever little thing as a child, but there was a complaint, once, that his mind was unstructured.” Amanda sneers a little. “I think they went looking for something to hold him back.” She shakes her head. “Sarek would meld with him, trying to bring order, but Spock would fight him, sometimes without even knowing it. It was terrible; I used to hate it.”

Amanda looks at Jim and must see some sign of his alarm because she rushes to add, “Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. Sarek wasn’t trying to fix something he thought was broken, even if I sometimes accused him of as much. In his own way, he was trying to help Spock,” she says. “I think he thought that if Spock could be irrefutably Vulcan in every way, then he wouldn’t suffer so, but it was wishful thinking. Not that he would ever see it that way.” She smooths her hand distractedly over her head. “It was the knowledge, you see. Spock could have been identical to every other Vulcan child and it wouldn’t have mattered one bit. They knew I was his mother, and Vulcans don’t forget.” Amanda smiled her sad smile. “He’s very powerful,” she says at last. “There was some talk of him joining the Adepts of Gol, but I put that out right away.”

Jim’s about to ask what she means, but Sarek and Spock choose that moment to re-enter. Spock is carrying the shutter.

“Well,” says Amanda, hiding a smile, “that’s certainly one method.”

  
  


They’re sitting in the kitchen trying to play _kal-toh_ , Sarek and Amanda having retired for the evening, Sarek carefully lifting his wife and carrying her back to their rooms the way he does every night. It’s maybe their third or fourth game since Christmas but Jim’s not getting any better. Spock’s tried explaining it to him a few times, but he’s at the point where he might as well give up and get Spock to meld him through it.

“The aim is to extract order from chaos,” Spock intones as he has every time they’ve played.

“I could do that if you let me take it apart and make something else,” Jim says, rubbing his hands down his face before peering round to work out his next move. If he can fix a diplomatic marriage, he can fix a damn puzzle, he thinks. The _koon’ul_ seems like child’s play in comparison.

Spock tilts his head in consideration. Jim’s beginning to like that look more and more. There’s something really feline about the motion that makes Jim laugh. Spock is a kind of cat, he thinks. Fastidious and haughty like his Aunt Dottie’s Siamese.

“That would certainly be in keeping with your modus operandi,” Spock says, after a fashion. “I have noted in you a willingness to alter the parameters of a situation to your favor.” Jim freezes, hand outstretched to move the next _t’an_. He lowers his hand to the table.

“Are you talking about T’Pring?” he asks. Outside of preparing for their melding sessions, Spock never brings up Jim’s _kugalsu_.

“Indeed,” says Spock. “When the terms of your meeting were not to your liking, you sought her out. Furthermore, when the fruits of that seeking were not satisfactory, you made efforts to ensure otherwise.”

He’s talking about Jim’s commitment to his curriculum, but Jim wonders if it’s more than that.

“Spock,” he asks slowly, “are you reading my mind?”

The offense is immediate and absolute. All the expressions on his face wipe clean.

“I would not,” Spock says stiffly. “Even were I able to without initiating a meld, I would not violate your privacy in such a way. You need not ascribe nefarious designs where there are none to be found,” he adds. “The source of your inferior performance is, as you would say, much closer to home.”

Jim winces at his tone, ignoring the jibe about his _kal-toh_ performance - it’s horrific, he knows - rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Spock. I know you wouldn’t.” He sits back in his seat. “It’s just weird. I was just thinking about the _koon’ul_ and then you brought up T’Pring.”

“It is likely that we will often discuss overlapping topics,” says Spock, not softening. “We are collaborating to ensure the success of a mutually-beneficial act of diplomacy and you are now a guest in my father’s home. It is an aspect of successful conversation that its participants discuss topics on which they have some shared knowledge so as to invite further discussion and not merely a list of unrelated facts.”

“I know, I know,” Jim says, “I’m sorry. I’m overthinking it.”

A few moments pass in silence. Jim bends his head low to the table to try to catch Spock’s eye. “I really am sorry,” he says, trying out a wry smile. “I suppose I assumed that brain of yours has got enough of a kick that you could hit me from over there. It was stupid.”

“Jim,” Spock says seriously, “though it is true that my psi-rating is high, you have nothing to fear from me. The ethical concerns notwithstanding, even were I able to perform such feats, I would not commit an act of harm against you.”

“How exactly does someone measure their psi-rating?” Jim asks.

“Through careful testing,” Spock answers neutrally. Something about the way he answers tells Jim that Spock knows more about that than he’s letting on. A half-human, half-Vulcan, the first of his kind. He’d probably been the focus of a lot of scrutiny in ways profound and mundane. Jim thinks about what Amanda had told him earlier that day and he reaches across the table to squeeze Spock’s arm over his sleeve, willing him to read the sympathy in his eyes. I’m sorry, he thinks, for every time someone looked at you and thought you weren’t enough. After a beat, Spock gently lifts his arm, also over his sleeve, and returns it to the table, but he doesn’t look so austere any more, so Jim doesn’t fight him.

“Amanda and I were talking about that actually,” Jim says, turning back to the game. He moves a _t’an_ at random - poorly if the look on Spock’s face is anything to go by. “She told me about something to do with the Adepts of Gol, but I don’t actually know what it is.” A thought crosses his mind; he looks at Spock in alarm. “They’re not monks, are they?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” says Spock, his focus directed on his next move. “The Adepts train in the discipline of _kolinahr_ ,” he explains.

“But you said,” Jim’s appalled, “if you can’t find someone to mate with—” Spock cuts him a severe glance as he says it, but doesn’t interrupt, “— you’re going to become a monk? Spock, that’s ridiculous.”

“To successfully complete _kolinahr_ is considered a noble and worthy achievement,” Spock replies.

Jim scoffs. “They jump off a cliff, are you going to do it too?”

“I do not underst—”

“Yes, you do,” Jim says, cutting him off. “What’s so great about this _kolinahr_ , anyway - what is it?”

Spock carefully folds his hands in his lap. “It is a ritual that requires the dedication of many years of practice. The _kolinahru_ seek to embrace a life of complete logic. One can only achieve _kolinahr_ through the fusion of intellect and spirit which brings about a state of peace founded in pure logic.” He sounds like he’s reciting from a manual. Jim wants to take hold of him and shake him until he starts talking sense.

“Spock,” he says, searching for the right words, “you can’t be serious. I know people all over, you know, they go through break-ups, they don’t find a partner, but none of them throw up their hands and decide to join a monastery.” He picks at the table. “You can’t just give up.”

“It is not a matter of capitulation,” Spock says, “but of necessity. Outside of a marriage bond, _kolinahr_ is the only possible recourse for what ails a Vulcan during his Time.”

“That can’t be true,” Jim says, “it doesn’t make sense. There’s other fish in the sea.”

“You do not understand,” Spock says, as usual ignoring anything Jim says that he can’t translate.

“So explain it to me,” Jim says. “I understand that this _kolinahr_ business is important to your people, but you can’t just throw away every good thing in your life just because you don’t find The One.”

“It is not a matter of preference,” Spock says flatly. “You are speaking of personal inclination; I am speaking of necessity. It is not a term I use without precision.”

Jim thinks about what Spock’s saying. “Why necessity?” he asks at last.

Spock shakes his head, refusing to answer, but he should know by now that Jim’s not that easily dissuaded. He works through what he knows.

“You said the reason Vulcan kids go through _Telan t’Kalar_ is because it’s important that they have the opportunity to grow together. You said it was a - what did you call it? _A logical act to provide succor_.” Jim ducks his head, trying to get Spock to look at him. “What does that actually mean?”

Jim can feel Spock’s reticence like a physical thing. It exists outside his body, like a wall, but that doesn’t mean it’s invulnerable. Jim can climb walls; Spock’s seen him do it.

“Succor’s just a fancy way of saying help,” he reasons out, “and you keep saying need, necessity. So it’s an imperative, whatever it is? Is it the bonding? The mating?”

Spock stands abruptly, the chair skidding out from under him.

“I must order my mind,” he says, stepping towards the door. “Rest well, Jim.”

“Wait, Spock—” But Spock’s already gone, his shadow barely visible as he strides out away from the lamp and into the dark of the house. Jim looks at the half-finished game of _kal-toh_. He wants to put his fist through it, but he knows Sarek would hear him. He punches the air above the table. He’s missing something.

  
  


It takes just under a week before Spock consents to speak to Jim in more than one-word answers. Amanda’s noticed, but Jim knows she won’t raise questions about emotional well-being in front of her husband or her son so like a coward he avoids spending time with her alone.

Jim’s got to hand it to Spock - even in the depths of his bad mood he doesn’t leave Jim to his own devices. They continue much the way they always have except that when Jim asks him to clarify something, Spock points him to a tome in the library, They discuss Jim’s readings, but never stray outside the bounds of the curriculum, and when Spock politely declines Jim’s help with the evening meal he takes his books and hides out in the library until it’s time to eat.

It’s lonely, and it’s keeping him up at night. The restlessness of the first couple of weeks in confinement is coming back to him, and no matter how hard he tries to meditate, he can’t get past the first level. Even getting there’s a stretch - just trying to remember the pattern of breaths reminds him of Spock. After two days, he abandons the meditation chamber for the comfort of his own room. He shoots a message off to Bones and spends the rest of the evening lying on the floor trying to deal with the weight on his chest. The worst of it is, he doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t even know what he did. Spock kept saying he didn’t understand, and that’s true - he doesn’t. But if Spock won’t explain it to him, Jim doesn’t know how to get past it.

In the end, he falls asleep out of sheer exhaustion, his body giving out on him under the cool jets of the environmental controls spitting out recirculated air.

He wakes to the stringent smell of sulfur. He takes in a nose-full and it kicks into his lungs, sparking off the low-lying panic he’s been living with for days. Still half-asleep, it filters into his dream - he’s on the Farragut during the skirmish with the Klingon miners and he feels the impact of the firefight shudder through the ship like a sonic wave. Conduits are overheating as Engineering works double-time to divert enough power to the shields, while also trying to get the engines back up. They’re sitting ducks, but Jim doesn’t have time to be scared, adrenaline flushing through his heart like water through a broken dam, and he’s running now, down the halls of the lower decks until he finds the Jefferies tubes he needs. He’s up the funnel when the next volley hits and he ping pongs back and forth, spanner in hand, a diagnostic PADD between his teeth, trying desperately to open the panel that exposes the wiring that will open the secondary ventilation shaft and hopefully suck the fire in the upper decks clean out into the vacuum of space. Another hit, and the wiring sparks, burning his fingers - he drops the damn PADD, and as he reaches down to grab, the wall next him blows out—

Jim hits the floor with a gasp, choking on his own spit, struggling with the thin atmo for the first time in months as he tries to pull air into his lungs. He’s fighting it, too, he knows; it’s the after-burn of the dream, and panic does that to him, closes him off when he needs to open up. The sulfur is still so strong; it’s singeing his nostrils, acrid and foul.

He’s dimly aware of a light coming on somewhere, and he hears rather than sees the door open. The light’s coming from the wrong direction, and he can’t feel his legs— shit, he reaches down, why can’t he feel his legs?

A hand lands on his shoulder, the grip steadfast. “You are awake,” Spock says firmly, his voice piercing through the fog in Jim’s head. “Jim, open your eyes. You are awake.”

Jim gasps in shallow breaths. “I can’t feel—” he swallows thickly, coughing in his haste. “Why can’t I?” His pulse thunders in his ears like the drums of war before a battle. Everything hurts. He feels sick.

“Forgive me, Jim,” he hears Spock say, before cool fingers press against his face, and he blacks out.

  
  


He wakes to someone running a hand through his hair. It feels good. His tongue’s so dry; it feels thick in his mouth and it tastes like something died in there. Jim tilts his head into the hand cupping his skull, moaning in protest when it stills. His eyes are full of sleep, the lids stuck together like he’d gone to sleep crying.

He remembers the dream.

A familiar hand on his shoulder prevents him from bolting upright. “Rest, Jim. You are well.”

“Spock?”

“It is my understanding you experienced the phenomenon known as a nightmare,” Spock answers. “This, along with the proximal effects of sandfire, resulted in your significant distress.” He pauses before forging on. “Jim, I must ask for your forgiveness. I was unable to wake you from the depths of your stupor, and noting that your mounting agitation was causing respiratory distress, I was forced to intervene.”

As Spock speaks, the low tones of his voice break the last of the fog in Jim’s head. He realizes they’re on the floor in his room, Spock sitting cross-legged with Jim’s head in his lap. It was Spock’s hand that had run through his hair, though he’s stopped now. Jim’s too tired to be embarrassed about it, but he does force himself to lever up on his arms and out of Spock’s surprisingly gentle touch.

“Did we meld?”

Spock looks down at his now-empty hands. “I accessed the nerve center in your cerebrum to trigger unconsciousness. I did not know how else to proceed.”

In the glow of the light from the fresher - and now Jim understands why he was confused before; no one in the house ever comes through that way - Spock’s face is somber and drawn. Under the cover of relative darkness, it’s easy to be open. It’s easy to forgive.

“I was having a panic attack,” he says instead. “It’s been a while. Thanks for cutting me off before I really got going.”

Spock doesn’t seem to understand that Jim’s letting him off the hook. “You must take my actions seriously.”

“I do,” Jim says, not willing to go ten rounds when he’s just gotten through fighting himself. “You were trying to help me and you did. Thanks.” He frowns. “Why couldn’t I feel my legs?”

“You were ensnared within the bed sheets,” Spock says.

Yes - that’ll do it.

Jim shuffles around until his back is up against the bed, parallel to Spock. They sit together quietly, Jim soaking up Spock’s cool and steady presence. He feels wrung out, like he’s had to sprint across the Forge, a le-matya on his tail. His body aches. It really has been a long time since he lost it like that. Normally he wakes up quickly enough to sort himself out - that or Bones would force him to stick his head between his legs and take deep breaths - but it had caught him by surprise this time, the sulfur triggering vivid flashbacks.

“What was the source of your nightmare?” Spock asks.

“Just a memory,” Jim says, not wanting to dig too far into it. “Skirmish just outside the Neutral Zone nearly did us in. The Enterprise bailed us out, but not before we lost half the upper decks to a fire.”

“You were injured,” Spock says.

“Concussion,” Jim answers, “and I got licked by an explosion - something blew out next to me, I don’t know. The med crew patched me up.” He picks at the seam of his pants. “That was a bad one. Lost a lot of good people.”

“I grieve with thee.”

“Thanks.” Jim gives in to the temptation to lean on Spock, pressing his forehead into his shoulder. Spock makes no attempt to move him, so Jim reckons it must be fine. “Where did the sulfur come from?” he asks, closing his eyes.

“A fire broke out on the plains,” Spock explains. “Just beyond the grounds. A _mazhyon_ is what you would call ’sandfire’. It is caused when changing pressure forces the high winds to circle, rapidly throwing sand and storm debris into a funnel of hot air which causes the generation of static. The static discharges as bolts of lightning. One struck the remnants of a decaying shrub which caught alight.” He pauses before adding. “You are safe here, Jim. The house is well-fortified.”

Jim presses his eyes closed against a wave of emotion. “I’m safe with you,” he says softly, “when you’re around.”

He feels Spock stiffen under his cheek, though he relaxes at Jim’s wounded noise of protest.

“You can’t just leave me to deal with myself,” Jim says. He lifts his head to look at Spock’s profile, light from the fresher softening the sharper angles of his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing out here. I need your help.” Saying it out loud makes it real; Jim’s not sure what he’d do without Spock to guide him. There’s more to it than that, but he can’t voice it. He’s safe here, in the confines of Spock’s care, but that doesn’t mean he can push his luck. He’s learned that the hard way.

He settles back down, tucking his face into Spock’s shoulder again, feeling vulnerable under the weight of the night’s agonies. “I need you.”

Jim falls asleep that way, tucked into Spock’s side. When he wakes in the morning, he’s back in his bed, alone. He tries not to sigh, wondering if things will go back to normal now, or whether it’s going to be four more weeks of begging for scraps of Spock’s attention while avoiding Amanda’s concern.

He rolls over to stretch his aching limbs, sore from the exertions of the dream and the panic attack. Falling asleep on the floor can’t have helped either— and he stops. Spock is sitting adjacent to the fresher, his eyes closed as his meditates. He opens them several moments later and fixes his gaze on Jim.

“Spock,” says Jim, the quiet intimacy of the morning and the rush of relief at Spock’s presence making him uncharacteristically timid.

“Good morning,” Spock says.

“Yes.” Jim nods absently. “Yes, I think it is.”


	12. Chapter 12

In the days following the _mazhyon_ and Jim’s nightmare, a tentative peace emerges between them. Spock feels deeply ashamed of his behavior. He had behaved like an untrained child, allowing his embarrassment to foster upon Jim unfeasible conditions. That Spock has an expectation of privacy is true; that Jim equally had an expectation of honesty is equally so. Spock had failed him and it had not gone unnoticed by his mother.

“Whatever happened,” Amanda had said the morning of the _mazhyon_ , “you have to work through it, Spock. It’s very Vulcan to close off from what you feel, which is only natural to you. But Jim is human and sometimes we humans need to talk about our feelings, distasteful as that might seem to you.” Spock had inclined his head in acknowledgement, but had proceeded to the library to work on his research nonetheless.

Now, he and Jim have renewed their previous routine, though their camaraderie is fragile. In front of Spock’s mother, Jim is convivial and animated, alleviating some of her concerns, but Spock is unable to be anything other than what he is, and he knows his mother can see that he is behaving atypically.

One afternoon, while Amanda is assisting Jim with Golic grammar, Sarek approaches Spock in the kitchen where he is clearing away the remains of their lunch.

“My son, your mind is disordered.”

Spock turns to his father, clasping his hands behind his back and bowing. “Forgive me, Father, I have been attempting to remedy the situation.”

“It is not a matter of forgiveness,” his father says. “You are troubled. Perhaps I may be of assistance?” Spock straightens slowly to meet his father’s inquisitive gaze.

After consideration, Spock says, “I do not wish to interrupt your work.”

“You cannot interrupt that which I myself have adjourned,” Sarek replies. “I make myself available to you.”

Spock follows his father to the meditation chamber and is surprised when Sarek arranges the mats the same way Spock had done for himself and Jim.

“Sit,” Sarek instructs, adjusting his robes so that he may sit comfortably. As he has many times over the course of his life, Spock lowers himself to the ground in front of his father. “Let us begin,” Sarek says.

As Jim had done with Spock, so Spock matches his breaths with his father’s. Using their familial bond, Sarek leads them down through the levels of meditation until at last they enter a full trance. Spock finds himself laden with discontent and sets to work separating each strand, acknowledging it, and releasing it. He had attempted to do so in his own meditation, and only been partially successful. Under Sarek’s guiding presence, Spock is able to face his shame. It is a common emotion when Spock sits with his father, a well-rooted sense of inadequacy that he must pluck out time and again. Meditating with his father is a humbling, if not ultimately familiarly mollifying, experience.

When they emerge from the trance, several hours have passed. It will soon be time to prepare the evening meal. Spock has clarity where before there was confusion. His thoughts are ordered once more.

“Thank you, Father,” he says.

“Gratitude is unnecessary,” Sarek says. “You are my son. It is my duty to guide you when you are in need of guidance, as it is your duty to heed me when I offer it.” He inclines his head. “Nevertheless, I accept your thanks. You are also your mother’s son. It is logical that you should adhere to her customs.”

Spock senses rather than sees his father’s amusement.

  
  


As the season draws to a close, milder weather prevails. While several more _mazhyon_ occur, none are as fierce as the first, and none find purchase to catch flame, a fact for which Spock finds he has gratitude. Soon the rains will come, but before then Sarek, Spock and Jim begin to make arrangements to return to ShiKahr.

The high pressure of the dry season has been well and truly broken, making way for cooler but manageable temperatures. Spock helps his father to remove the shutters from the second floor, before bringing his mother’s china and books back to her day parlor. The time has evidently been fruitful for her; his mother gently admonishes them to be careful with her papers. She has a great many more than she had upon her relocation a few weeks before. The improvement in the weather has always had a corresponding effect on Amanda; the sky is clear and bright, and Spock notices that his mother is in good spirits, deftly parrying Jim’s observations with ones of her own.

“Was your mother in Debate?” Jim asks later, helping Spock lift an armchair up the curving staircase.

“With whom?” Spock asks.

“Never mind.”

The cooling air also allows them to resume their cardiovascular exercise. After several weeks in confinement, Jim’s endurance has abated, but he completes the circuit in good time. Spock leads him out beyond the grounds to the far side of the wall where the plains are littered with the remnants of the season. They come upon the site of the fire; it is a root of some sort, split open to its core, putrefying. Jim is unable to traverse too closely, the smell of sulfur bringing tears to his eyes. Spock returns later in the day, alone, to dig out the remains.

As is ever the case, his mother’s garden has been ravaged by the storms. Situated outside the boundaries of the house, albeit entirely within the grounds, the garden is not afforded the protection of the shields. When they are finally able to open the doors that lead out to the cordoned square, Spock sees a familiar sight from over the years: flora stripped bare, branches scattered, and across every visible surface, sharp crystals of red and black sand.

Jim gives a low whistle as he surveys the damage. “Storm really did a number on the place.”

“Jim,” Spock remarks, “you have a curious talent for understatement.”

They get to work clearing the debris. Anything that has been half-rent from the ground is uprooted and disposed of; broken branches are collated and stripped of their bark for kindling, and Spock spends three afternoons on his knees in the soft clay, digging out the desiccation and replacing what is now mostly sand with new soil. As he works he digs up bulbs to transplant and clears grit from the surface of any plants still standing. Jim assists him, shoulder-to-shoulder under the sun, shovelling liters of sand into bags to be redistributed outside the grounds. They have to work together to pull out one of the rotted shrubs, feet braced against the clay, their hands close in the brambles. The force of ejection throws Jim to the ground, and he wipes his brow, laughing in triumph at the unearthed bushel in Spock’s hands, a red smear of dirt across his face. It is laborious but satisfying work and over the course of the week the garden re-emerges, freshly planted and ready for rain. The thick scent of clay adheres to Spock and Jim’s clothes, the topsoil dark and fertile.

Spock’s forebearers had thought his mother illogical when she had attempted to plant vegetation in the plot, sneering at her illogic, but Amanda had persevered season after season, careful with her crop and learning as she went until she had secured for herself a garden. Spock had spent many days as a child helping his mother remove rootworms and weeds, trim cuttings and re-lay soil, and he was allowed to partake in her harvest when fruits came to bear.

It is Spock’s honor and privilege to carry his mother into the freshly cleared space to view the results of his and Jim’s labor. Amanda presses a hand to her mouth in wide-eyed appreciation, before reaching out to pass her palms over the tops of new saplings, the newly shorn vines preening under the gift of her attention. From then on, his mother takes to sitting in the garden after lunch, drinking tea and annotating her research, and taking a particular delight in quizzing Jim on his progress. She has, Sarek notes on one occasion, witnessing their discussions, a near-Vulcanian talent for interrogation. The days, though clear and distinct from one another, pass with consistency. Spock finds he is content.

  
  


Jim enjoys the cooler air of the evening and so, after the evening meal, he is often found seated in the garden. Tonight Spock finds him sitting on the newly-installed bench, staring up at T’Khut. He has a habit of occupying each space he is in to its fullest. Whether this is a human trait, or particular to Jim, Spock has not had occasion to discover. And yet it remains true that Jim seems unable to be seated without an over-pouring of limbs. He does not sit, he lounges, or settles, all with an aspect of indulgence. Spock has found him stretched out over low walls and sprawled across armchairs. In the quiet of the kitchen, he straddles the chairs, head laid on folded arms, watching as Spock prepares vegetables or steeps tea. Even now, though he is alone, he sits in the middle of the bench, arms resting on parted knees, flicking through the pages of another book. This one seems to be poetry, Spock thinks, taking note of the cover. Jim is not reading.

“Are you well, Jim?” Spock asks, coming to stand at his shoulder. Jim looks up at him and smiles, pleased to see him.

“Spock. Yes, I was just thinking.” He moves aside, making room for Spock to sit next to him. “Join me.”

I would have your thoughts, Spock thinks, unbidden.

A house does not imbue upon its residents any character; it is merely a place to reside. And yet, in the bosom of his family’s home, Spock has had cause to wonder what Jim sees when he looks upon the configuration of walls, the empty spaces, the hard-won bounty of his mother’s garden. Humans are prone to narrative where none exists, and yet Spock wishes to know the story Jim has read within these walls. It is a fanciful notion, one rooted in the experience of Jim’s mind which is always warm, and rarely quiet, and where until their disagreement, Spock had found unexpected welcome. It plagues him, the memory of Jim’s thoughts, the shape of them if not the content which he would not observe without Jim’s consent. Following the night of the fire, he and Jim had reconciled, but Spock had not been willing to reinstate the melds. There was no need: Jim had proven he understood how to shield, and had demonstrated that knowledge several times.

“Do they have names?” Jim asks, indicating the stars.

“Each has an alphanumeric designation,” Spock says, “as assigned by astronomers, though some retain titles awarded before the Reformation.”

“Are there constellations?”

“Yes,” Spock says, “many. Vulcans do not encourage their use, however.”

Jim smiles ruefully, before looking back into the night sky. “Do they have stories?”

There were many stories told about the stars that had remained from before the Reformation, traveling from mouth to ear across generations until Cultural Historians took it upon themselves to preserve them in writing. Some spoke of old gods and cunning creatures, and others of shield brothers and great battles. As a child, Spock had discovered a number of tomes in his parents’ library that collect the old tales. Before he was sufficiently advanced in the practice of logic, he had envisioned himself in many roles - the fearless knight defending ShiKahr from warlords; the wise poet whose cunning had defeated his rival’s clan; the lone wanderer who was aided in his travels by a warrior god. It strikes him now that no matter the number of opponents, Spock had emerged the sole victor in all his recollections. His spoils were his and his alone.

He points out a composition of stars, low to the horizon. “The Nautilian system can be seen without the aid of telescopic equipment,” he says, drawing a line between seven pinpoints of light. Jim ducks his head to follow Spock’s line of sight until their views match.

“I got it - that row of seven?”

“Indeed,” says Spock. “That is Shariel’s Spear. Above,” he moves his hand to point higher, “a quadrilateral appended with an arc. This is Kir-Alep, the god of peace, who crushes the spear.” He singles out a few more. It is illogical to favor an arbitrary distribution of plasmic spheres, but Spock recalls the preferences of his infancy, and it is these he shares with Jim under the cover of night. There are none present to judge him for the illogic of his early years save Jim, and he himself would not break Spock’s confidence.

“It’s strange,” Jim says after a while, “I see stars every day up on the Farragut, always moving, always changing. But down here I forget that it’s not Earth, even though you’d think, Vulcan being the way it is, that I couldn’t mistake it.” He purses his lips. “I keep expecting to see constellations I know,” he says at last.

“The night is deceptive,” Spock says. He is curious. “Is it your wish to return to Earth?”

Jim laughs; it’s a low, humorless sound. “Not really. I’d rather be out there,” he tips his head up towards the arc of the sky.

“I must confess to similar aspirations,” Spock confides, “despite the absence of the opportunities of which you have availed yourself.”

That Jim is intuitive cannot be denied; that he is able to decipher Spock’s meaning and deduce the wider implications is more surprising. “Wait, Spock,” he turns to survey Spock’s profile, “did you want to join Starfleet?”

Spock finds he is unwilling to meet Jim’s gaze. He slowly follows the low curve of T’Khut’s circumference clockwise. “As my mother’s son, I was eligible to enroll. I prepared an application alongside my entrance examinations for the Science Academy.”

“Are you saying you applied?” Jim asks.

“It was logical to cultivate multiple opportunities,” Spock says, echoing the reasoning he had prepared to share with his father a decade before had the need arisen. It had not.

“What happened?” The topic is of interest enough to have enticed Jim into straightening, Spock the sole focus of his not inconsiderable attention. “There’s no way they rejected you,” Jim says. “You could walk in there right now and they’d trip over themselves to have you.”

“I did not submit my application,” Spock admits. “To have done so would have encouraged the prospect of a future I was, and am, unable to to pursue.” Though to leave Vulcan - to leave his mother - was not an impossible feat, nor was it feasible. While his father had endeavored to remain close at hand following the attempts on Amanda’s life, the Vulcan High Command continued to make demands on his person. By unspoken agreement it fell to Spock to care for his mother, to bring her food and medicine, to aid her to the fresher, and read to her in her solitude.

Though she has regained her strength, his mother’s lack of mobility and reluctance to venture from the grounds of their home conferred upon Spock a responsibility of proximity. Over time, Amanda has regained her appetite for life and her work, but the enduring pain of her injury has redefined the parameters of her productivity. Spock has no cause to assign blame; to do so would not be logical. He would choose his mother over all others in his life, and has done so willingly. Yet it remains true that to foster her care, Spock must be close at hand. A career in Starfleet would not afford him that luxury.

Jim is quiet as he digests the information, rubbing a thumb across his mouth. His contemplation is loud, Spock thinks; his body broadcasts even the subtlest of thoughts. He is caught between a vocal, natural denial and an offer of sympathy; that he wishes to offer either is a mystery to Spock. He is not often the focus for such simple kindness. Sarek is practically-minded and so asks no more of Spock than that which he himself can offer, and Amanda offers a human mother’s love, deep and generous, and often blind to fault. Jim, however, makes his considerations of Spock as an equal. Spock has not had occasion to suffer such amity.

Looking up to meet Spock’s eye, Jim finds the words he has sought: “I’m sorry,” he says, simply, plainly. He is straddling the bench now, still worrying over the book in his hands, playing with the pages as though diverting his hands’ attention from other pursuits.

“I am content, Jim,” Spock assures him. “My work at the Academy sustains my intellectual curiosity, and I have the comfort of my mother’s well-being and company.” A near abundance of gifts, he thinks, a phrase he had once heard his mother deploy when he was a child.

The answer seems to trouble Jim. “I know, Spock. I know you are.” He looks up to T’Khut. From here the terrain of Vulcan’s sister planet is visible to the naked eye. “For what it’s worth, we’re missing you out there.” He laughs on seeing Spock raise an eyebrow. “No, I mean it. You’d have been a brilliant officer, absolutely first rate. I know it.”

Inclining his head in gratitude, Spock asks another question that has been of interest to him. “When you depart from Vulcan, will you return to your commission?”

Swinging his leg back over to the bench so that his feet sit together in the clay Jim nods. “That’s the plan. The Farragut’s out in the Neutral Zone right now, but Garrovick and some of the senior officers will be around for the wedding, so I’ll head back up with them.” An air of embarrassment settles on him, his shoulders rising defensively around his ears. “Then it’s a case of waiting out the construction.”

Spock understands his meaning. “You are being awarded a ship,” he infers.

Jim gives a shrug, as though to demure will in some way distract from the facts. “I don’t know the specifics, but that’s—” his head bobs and weaves before he settles on the truth. “Yes. Yes, I am.” Straightening, he gives a bashful smile. “What about you? I suppose you’ll go back to your old routine. Efficiency will be up, that’s for sure.”

“Certainly there will be a deficit of distractions,” Spock says, speaking over Jim’s predictable noise of mock-affront, “though I cannot say this will be entirely welcome.”

Jim quietens at the admission, his smile widening full and warm. “Lucky we’ve got some time, then,” he says softly. He casts his eye to the sky once more. “There’s still time.”

  
  


“I don’t understand,” Jim exclaims the following day, brandishing the small knife he is using to strip the _plomeek_. Sarek has ventured into ShiKahr at the High Command’s behest, so it falls to Spock and Jim to accompany Amanda for the midday meal. They have become accustomed to sharing the task, Jim gathering the ingredients under instruction while Spock prepares to cook them. “How is that even possible?” Jim asks.

“I have not had the opportunity,” Spock replies, deftly removing the blade from his hand and laying it flat on the counter before returning to the slow task of making his mother’s tea. She had woken early after Sarek’s departure, not an uncommon experience, but when Spock had delivered her breakfast she had seemed particularly fatigued. Cephalgia, he suspects, and possibly a recurrence of pain in her coxa. Later he will offer to assist his mother in standing in an effort to alleviate the pressure. If she is distressed, she will decline, regardless of the potential for remedy.

“Yes, that much I knew,” Jim is saying, voice rising in incredulity, “but— your mother is from another planet. Your father’s an _interplanetary diplomat_. You literally work on warp propulsion! How have you never been off planet?”

“That my mother is from another planet does not necessarily follow that I too should have had occasion to travel,” Spock points out. “My mother’s departure from Earth was under inauspicious circumstances, preventing her from returning at a later opportunity.” He does not mention his mother’s accident; the glancing wince across Jim’s face suggests he has belatedly understood the implications. “My father is often called upon to mediate diplomatic disputes. Although it is not uncommon for an ambassador to travel with their families, the nature of my father’s work often brought him to volatile environs. As I was yet a young child, my father deemed it would be to my benefit to remain on Vulcan to continue my schooling, thereby ensuring both my and my mother’s safety.” The irony is not lost on Spock or Sarek that home had proven deadliest of all.

“That makes a kind of sense,” Jim muses. “I just don’t know how you can be going through pages and pages of numbers talking about spaceflight when you’ve never actually done it.” Jim’s tone is wistful; Spock notes the slack of his shoulders, the glassy look of recollection but he recalls the present, shaking his head as though to dislodge the specter of the past. “I’ll have to take you some day.”

Spock demurs. “It is not necessary to experience space flight to understand the scientific principles at its core.”

“Well, I don’t know if that’s right,” Jim says with a smile, “but it would sure be a damn shame.” He pauses, leaning on the counter to watch Spock split and crush red spice. “You’ve never thought about what it’s like?”

“I have had cause to think on it,” Spock acknowledges. “You consider it a superlative experience?”

As though understanding some revelation that Spock is not aware he has made, Jim turns sheepish. He shrugs, but answers nonetheless. “There’s nothing like it. My first time in the blue was—” he pauses, attempting to gather the words he needs. Spock thinks his time on Vulcan has afforded him some benefit beyond an expansion of his knowledge; he has matured as well. He is thoughtful, where once a notion would have been spoken before it was thought. “It’s quiet up there. It’s cold and dark and vast, and it could kill you if you let it. But it’s also immense and beautiful, and if you throw a shuttle into it, who knows how far you could go?”

“Depending on the size of the engine,” Spock says, “and the depth of the fuel reserves, it would be simple to calculate—”

Laughing, Jim knocks into him with haphazard care, “Stop that, you know what I mean.” He looks down at where Spock is beginning to steep the tea for the third time. “There’s just so much out there, so much life. New worlds, new civilizations - new food and language.” He shakes his head. “And the flight itself. They throw you up there so fast you think your teeth will burst out the back of your head and then you break atmo and everything stops all of a sudden, all that reverb rocketing through your head. The smaller the ship, the easier it is to notice, but even in a cruiser, dropping out of warp can knock you the first few times - more, if you’re flying into combat.”

Vulcans are not prone to enthusiasm, and so it was once difficult to understand why humans spoke so - with rapid turns and shortness of breath, palpable warmth to their skin. Now, however, Spock can easily read the excitement in Jim’s face and body. His eyes are bright, his shoulders loose, legs kicked out behind for leverage. He is watching the motion of Spock’s hands with a care that belies his tone. Their proximity has changed Spock as well. It is easier now than ever before to read Jim.

He looks up at Spock, quietened. “All the reading you’ve done, all the research - there’s nothing out there you’d want to see?”

The question is laden with some unnameable agitation, but Spock is unable to decipher it, especially with the weight of the question. It is unfair to suggest that Spock’s lack of access confers on him a lack of interest; rather, he has been forced to cultivate an absence of curiosity in order to accept the parameters of his reality. Yes, he has given much thought to the universe; more, still, to his place within it. How to convey that to Jim, whose feet have swept up stardust - how to explain this most un-Vulcan yearning?

“You mistake my meaning,” Spock says, simply. “Those were not my words.”

Sensing Spock’s reserve, Jim withdraws his interrogation, rolling a little to kick Spock from behind. There has been a marked increase in this manner of contact from Jim across _yonuk mazhiv_ ; a gradual encroaching on Spock’s space and person, as yet within the bounds of propriety, and yet incontrovertibly closer than Spock would usually allow. Most curious of all, Spock has given Jim no reason to desist. He finds he does not mind at all.

“We’ll get you out there some day,” Jim says, speaking softly. His gaze, more than his words, holds the quality of a promise.


	13. Chapter 13

Packing to leave seems to take three times as long as packing to arrive in the first place, and despite only having the one room, Jim finds himself darting about the house trying to find misplaced PADDs and errant books. Amanda has been quietly adding to his collection when he’s not looking so he leaves with twice as many as he’d brought, with a fervent promise to bring them back in one piece.

“I know you will,” Amanda says, pressing them carefully into Jim’s hands. “I expect you to bring them in person.”

There’s some poetry in there, he can see, and some fiction, in among the linguistic and etymological references. Jim feels a pang of regret over his impending departure. “Yes, ma’am,” he promises. “Thank you for having me in your home.”

“Nonsense, Commander,” says Amanda in that clipped professorial way she sometimes has. “You’re always welcome.”

Spock will go back to traveling between Jim’s digs and the house, unable to commit entirely to the city, and Jim’s not sure that’s something he’s looking forward to either. It’s been good knowing there are people around the whole time, but news had got out that Jim had spent the season with Spock’s family and not in his assigned lodgings, and Aberforth’s retinue had sent word that Jim was expected to be back in the city in all haste.

While Sarek had been unable to see the cause for concern, Jim thinks it’s that he shacked up with Vulcans instead of the Federation’s remaining delegation. Marchese, Aberforth and the other primary diplomats had taken ships out, heading back to their home planets for the duration, but embassy staff had remained on the ground, relocated to the empty units adjacent to where Jim was being housed. If nothing else, Jim will have neighbors when he gets back. He doesn’t know what it says about him that he’s not too sure that he wants them anymore. His impulses are conflicting, Spock would say. No shit.

They leave after breakfast, joining Amanda in her day parlor for a final meal together. Spock had made fresh loaves of something like bread, and Jim eats his fill with the _sash-savas_ and honey that Sarek has procured for Amanda from his travels. It’s sharp and sweet and filling, and Jim has to hold back a groan at the first bite. Now that he knows what’s available, he’s coming to enjoy the sharp contrasts in flavor available in Vulcan cuisine. It’s not necessarily how Spock or his father would combine the foods but, in Amanda, Jim had found many different kinds of confidante and she’d suggested a number of combinations of food and drink that had whet his appetite. Filled on three homemade meals a day, and now mostly accustomed to the heavy-g and thin atmosphere, he’s not mainlining those energy drinks every few hours though Spock is careful to make sure Jim’s maintaining his fluid intake. His last health scan had met with favorable reviews from Bones. _GETTING SOMETHING RIGHT_ , said his last text-comm, _DON’T FUCK IT UP_ \- relevant in more ways than one.

They’re taken back to ShiKahr in Sarek’s transport, and when they arrive it’s clear that Jim has company now. The neighboring units don’t have doors flung open, but Jim can see signs of regular footfall stirring the dust, and some of the windows have items in them - there’s a Denobulan family sigil in one, a string of fairy lights in another. Signs of occupancy; signs of life. It feels a little like his first day onboard a new ship except the light is real and it’s very, very warm.

Warm, but not hot, he notes, toting his bag back into his digs - or at least not as hot as it had been when they’d left. It’s a sign that maybe he’s adapted better to Vulcan than he’d first thought, though nothing in his life could have prepared him for the thick, heavy heat that preceded the season.

Someone’s clearly been round in the interim. The few things he’d left scattered on the table to worry about on his return - a spare PADD, a shirt over a stool, a book of verb conjugations - have been collected and piled neatly on the main table. Otherwise it’s much the same as it was, spare and empty, and a little lonely. He looks to Spock to see whether he notices, but he’s already making himself at home at his usual place at the table, opening up a PADD and picking up where he’d left off the day before. Jim can’t help but smile. There’s something endearing about how predictable Spock his. Even when he deviates from routine, he deviates in an expected way. Jim doesn’t know enough about Vulcans in general to know whether that’s a generic trait or something specific to Spock - he wouldn’t put it past him.

Jim runs into some of the neighbors when he opens the back door at lunch, forgetting that all the occupants of the units have access to the communal yard. He has every intention of putting up the canopy again, so he doesn’t notice them at first, but the sudden absence of conversation cuts through his concentration, and he looks up while he’s dragging the canvas out to see three people looking at him in surprise.

“Commander Kirk,” says the Denobulan, presumably the owner of the sigil he’d seen. “You’ve returned from your sojourn.” She’s sitting with an augmented human, and an Edosian, the three of them under a parasol that’s wedged awkwardly in the clay at an angle, causing at least two of them to duck to stay under it. They’ve moved his bench.

“Uh, hi,” he says, unintelligibly. “Nice to… meet you?” He’s getting a little tired of complete strangers knowing his name, even if it’s something he should expect by now. How hard is it to introduce yourself to someone you’ve never met before?

As though reading his mind, the Denobulan straightens. “I’m Grevim, and this is Noriad,” she says, indicating the woman next to her. “We’re part of Ambassador’s Marchese’s staff. Toddan is Ambassador Aberforth’s attaché.” The Edosian waves.

“You’re the one who summoned me,” Jim says in recognition. “Well. I’m here.”

“Do you intend to erect the canvas?” Toddan asks, choosing to ignore his comment. “Better to wait a week, I think.”

“It’s going to rain,” says Noriad. She has an optical implant in place of her left eye, and an aural implant on the same side.

“It doesn’t rain here,” Jim says in confusion.

“You are mistaken,” Spock says behind him, having come to the door on hearing new voices. “Though infrequent, Vulcan does experience rainfall. There will be a storm tomorrow,” he adds, as though that wouldn’t have been useful information in advance.

“Huh,” Jim says. He’s not really sure what’s going on any more.

On seeing Spock, both Toddan and Noriad get to their feet as well. “Live long and prosper,” says Grevim, visibly startled but recovering quickly. Next to her, Noriad hurriedly throws up a _ta’al_. Toddan doesn’t bother.

For his part, Spock remains unfazed, offering the _ta’al_ in return, before returning to his typical parade rest. “Peace and long life. I trust you weathered the season in safety?”

“Thank you,” Grevim replies, “we did. I hope we didn’t disturb you.”

“You did not,” Spock says, before turning to Jim. “It would be prudent to wait until the rains have passed before seeking to re-establish the cover. I am happy to offer my assistance when the time arrives.”

“Since when does it rain here?” Jim asks. “Is everything I know a lie?”

“I cannot attest to the sum total of your knowledge,” Spock says, tone pointedly wry, “but Vulcan was once a planet primarily composed of water. Rainfall, therefore, has long been a feature of the planet’s meteorological system.” He turns to the assembled group. “Please excuse me, I must return to my work. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Jim watches as Spock heads back indoors, settling back into his seat. He doesn’t look up again, seemingly engrossed in the contents of his PADD. Jim shakes his head fondly.

When he looks back, the ambassadorial staff are looking at him agape.

“What?”

“Are you...” Noriad tilts her head inquisitively, more like Spock than she’s probably intending, "...friends?”

She drops her voice, but there’s no way Spock can’t still hear her. Vulcan hearing - trips people up every time.

Taking pity on them, Jim heads over to speak to them face-to-face. He sits opposite their appropriated bench, afforded some shade under the awning. “We are, actually. Mr. Spock has been helping me acclimate culturally. What?” he asks, watching as the three share frowning looks. “Why is that a surprise?”

In the end, Toddan breaks their weird silence. “Never met a friendly Vulcan,” he offers, pulling his trousers up at all three knees as he bends to sit again. Noriad joins him, ducking to get in under the parasol.

“First time for everything,” Jim says, offended on Spock’s behalf. “I’ve been staying with his family for the season.”

“Yes, we heard,” Grevim says, watching him carefully. “You might get a slap on the wrist for that,” she adds.

“What else is new?” he mutters. He shuffles to make himself comfortable. “I’m going to want that bench back,” he says, only half-joking.

“Finders keepers,” Noriad says, smiling.

Jim can’t help himself - he laughs, loud and sharp. “Touché,” he says, breaking the tension, everyone suddenly loose-limbed and relaxed. “Is it just you here?” Jim asks as Grevim sits, tucking herself next to Noriad. The three of them seem cozy, Jim thinks, long-term colleagues made friends over shared bosses, crises and late-night take-out. Their ease with one another makes Jim miss Bones fiercely. Not in Kansas, indeed.

Turns out there’s six of them staying in the units, two more humans and an Andorian. “Everyone else left with the delegation,” Noriad says, “but we tend to stay behind for the longer sessions.”

“Important to keep eyes on the ground,” Toddan says. “All manner of happenings during a formal recess.” Jim thinks that’s probably aimed at him in some capacity but he’s accompanied Garrovick in front of the Admiralty enough times to know how to happily and deftly side-step any meaningful changes in tone of voice. Plus, it was probably Toddan’s job to keep tabs on Jim while Aberforth was back on Earth, so Jim’s not feeling too bad about the whole thing. He doesn’t like being kept under anyone’s thumb and he’s glad Spock got him out of ShiKahr before he’d had to spend the whole season under lock and key.

“When’s everyone due back?” Jim asks.

“Three days,” says Grevim. “Marchese isn’t back until the day before proceedings, but Aberforth’s shuttle lands tomorrow evening. Ambassador Shras will be with him.”

“There’s a three-hour window where the rain should be out over the Forge,” Noriad says, getting to her feet again, “that’s when he lands. I’d better call the Embassy,” she adds, looking meaningfully at Grevim. “He’s going to need a transport and someone,” Toddan looks away blithely, “keeps upsetting the local drivers.”

“They shouldn’t make it so easy,” says Toddan, “Vulcans are a joy to wind up.”

“Sounds diplomatic,” Jim says, teeth kicking off against the consonants. He sits with Toddan and Grevim the rest of the afternoon, the other members of their team arriving over the course of the day. Before he knows it, Spock is haunting their door again.

“I must depart,” he says, solemnly. Jim feels bad; he’d gotten caught up socializing, and somehow the whole afternoon had passed. He jumps to his feet and, mindful of his audience, walks towards Spock, patting the dust off his pants.

“Sorry,” he murmurs as he gets close. “Lost track of the time.”

“Indeed,” says Spock. He flicks a glance in the direction of Jim’s new companions before taking a deliberate step back into the apartment, Jim following behind him to lean on the jamb.

“Are you coming tomorrow or is the rain going to keep you away?”

“I shall return in the morning,” Spock replies, gathering up his PADDs. “Rain will not delay me.”

  
  


True to his word, Spock arrives on time the next day. Jim’s feeling a little worse for wear - the staffers have synthehol, and it’s been a while - but he gamely takes his hypos then heads out with Spock to run their old route. Rain feels like more of certainty now, the temperature dropping enough to push a soothing breeze across the back of Jim’s neck. Spock is dressed in thermals, light but designed to keep the heat in. Jim wonders how far he feels the cold; it must be a lot considering it’s still warm enough for Jim to forgo layers.

They talk briefly on the route, discussing the embassy staff and their various responsibilities. Jim’s careful not to go on about them too much; jealousy doesn’t sound like a particularly Vulcan trait, but he doesn’t want Spock to think he’s that fickle: their friendship comes first. He’s yet to offer the word up to Spock, knowing it’s not a straightforward concept for him, but Jim knows that Spock is a friend he’ll work to keep, even when all of this is over. They’ve shared too much to go back to being acquaintances.

The absence of regular cardio means the circuit is harder for Jim than it has been for some time, though not as bad as when he’d first arrived. A couple more days and he should be back to standard. If nothing else, his endurance is going to be up when he gets back to the Farragut. He’s looking forward to pitting himself against the sec teams; he’s got a few new tricks up his sleeve courtesy of Spock. As they round the corner for the final leg back to the apartment, Jim imagines they’re running the saucer section of the Farragut, the people they pass other crew members. It’s getting easier and easier to think of Spock on a ship, dressed in science blues probably, that casual parade rest of his fitting in with the rank and tenor of ship life. It’s easy to imagine him running a lab, or taking the science officer position on the bridge, his attention fixed on what he can see through the scope or the clipped and precise advice he’d give, concise but comprehensive. Jim’s going to have to start reining that in or it’s going to be hard work when he has to go back. Spock won’t come with him, he has to remind himself over the course of each day; Spock can’t come with him.

“Are you well, Jim?” Spock asks, waiting for him at the door.

“All good, Spock,” he says, hurrying to catch up, “I’m fine.”

  
  


The rain, when it arrives, comes in furious bursts. They’re sitting at the table in the middle of the morning when the first wave arrives, a turbulent clamor of sound against the roof that makes them both look up, Spock with considerably more grace and less surprise. Hearing someone next door cry out in alarm, Jim gets up to take a look outside. Torrential, the downpour pierces into the dust and clay, smearing everything in a haze of rust. Jim stands pressed up against the shield that came up automatically when the storm began, there to stop the rain from coming into the apartment, and watches as the world turns almost purple, the low smell of petrichor rising from the ground as dark clouds swirl angrily above. It’s violent but also soothing. He hasn’t seen rain in almost a year, and nothing like this. He wishes he could run out into it.

“Is it dangerous?” he asks Spock. “I mean, is it toxic?”

“It is quite harmless,” Spock says from his seat at the table. “The force of the storm may be uncomfortable.”

“So I can go out?”

Spock pauses, clearly reluctant, then inclines his head in acknowledgement of the inevitable. “If you wish.”

Jim wishes.

He pulls off his shirt, dropping it to the floor before looking out again. Behind him, Spock has his head bent over his PADDs, fingers moving quickly over the screens. He’s seen worse, Jim thinks, hand moving to his pants to break the magnetic snap and pull them roughly over his legs. Outside the rainfall looks to be less bruising, though still heavy, and he lowers the shield, holding his hand out to feel the water run over his hand. It’s warm, and delightfully wet. God, he’s missed water. He steps out, palming the shield closed behind him.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

A sudden gust of wind throws the spray in his face; in a heartbeat he’s drenched through, rain plastering his hair to his head and his shorts to his legs. He walks out into the downpour and spreads his arms, tipping his head back to let the water wash over him, each drop landing like a bite. He feels clean; he feels good.

“What are you doing?” Toddan yells from the other side of the quad. Jim can just about make him out in the door of his own unit. The Andorian is with him, Krezh or Krazh or something. They look vaguely horrified.

“Taking a swim!” Jim yells back, and he starts to laugh, unable to hold in his delight any more. Rain - rain! Who knew it could be like this? “You should come out here,” he shouts, “it’s a beautiful day!”

He turns back to call for Spock and comes up short - Spock is much closer than Jim had thought, standing in the doorway, watching the rain as it pelts Jim, gathering in his hair and dripping into his eyes. For a moment, Jim thinks he sees a flash of— something, something warm and low and thrilling passing swiftly across his face; some twitching admission of appetite that Jim’s never seen on him before. They look at each other across the small space, and Jim wants to reach out to him, pull him closer. Heat prickles in his gut. He shivers.

Spock quirks a brow, breaking the tension, and Jim grins, half in cover, half in relief. “You coming?”

The rain gentles into a light shower, and then eases away. The air is thick and humid; a sign of more to come. Jim wipes the water off his face before pushing his hair back, locks heavy and slick with damp. It’s going to be a pain to settle when it dries, he thinks idly. Toddan and his colleague have long since headed back indoors. Jim shakes his head, his hands, kicks his legs out, all in a futile attempt to shake off the excess water that runs in rivulets down his limbs.

“Perhaps this may be of use,” Spock says, holding out a towel. The shield is down, but he doesn’t step out, instead reaching out across the perimeter to extend his offering at arm’s length. Not for the first time, Jim thinks he’s remarkably like a cat. He takes the offered towel and rubs down quickly, starting at his head and working his way down his body, being careful to wipe down his legs and feet, his skin gritty with damp sand. At the door, Spock seems unsure what to do. He makes an aborted motion as though warring between staying or leaving before he stops and turns, heading back to the table. Jim watches him go from beneath his lashes, and wonders.

  
  


The rain comes in fits and starts throughout the day. Jim and Spock spend the afternoon at the table, Jim testing out his gradually improving Golic on Spock while the latter pointedly corrects his grammar. It reminds him of days passed in Amanda’s library, heads bent over their respective tasks as the sandstorms raged outside. He’d had to take a sonic after his walking bath earlier in the day, just to get the grit out from between his toes, and he’d emerged from the fresher to find Spock cleaning the trail of clay he’d tried to wipe away with his towel before decrying it as a lost cause. Spock had managed what Jim’s admittedly half-hearted attempts had not and the floor was spotless.

Though he’d arrived at this usual time that morning, the rain delays Spock’s departure at the end of the day. Seeing the intermittent cloudbursts, Jim insists Spock calls his father’s office for a transport home. “You can’t walk back in that,” he says, “I don’t trust you not to drown. Don’t give me that look—” he cuts off Spock’s incipient protests. “You can’t tell me that given the choice you’d rather swim back.” Spock had accepted Jim’s argument silently.

Spock’s transport is delayed half-way across the far side of ShiKahr where Sarek had business for the day, and it will pass back later to collect Spock when Sarek is done. Jim worries about Amanda until Spock reassures him that she has enough food and drink close at hand that she won’t go hungry if they’re a little late. That’s the only reason why Spock’s still around when Aberforth walks in all presumption and bluster as though he’s welcome to come and go as he pleases. Behind him, one of the humans Jim hasn’t met yet follows nervously. She has the look of someone who is always apologizing, which makes sense when he thinks about Aberforth.

“Where the devil have you been?” he roars, marching through the front door, a hitch in his step as he spots Spock who has startled to his feet, albeit smoothly.

“Ambassador,” Spock says politely, sketching out a short bow.

“Yes, very good,” says Aberforth, before he spots Jim further back and gets a second wind. “You owe me an explanation.”

“For what?” Jim asks, irritated into a lack of politesse. Aberforth’s generally a good time, but he has an air of effrontery about him that rubs Jim the wrong way, and he doesn’t like how Aberforth never really seems to acknowledge Spock, even though it’s clear from their first meeting that, unlike most of the retinue, he knows who Spock is. It smacks of a kind of disrespect that Jim’s been tired of receiving his whole life, and having it targeted at Spock, however absently, isn’t winning Aberforth any favors.

“Do you think you can just swan off without telling anyone where you’re going or who the devil you’re going with?”

“Careful, Ambassador,” Jim cautions, “you’re verging on the impolitic.”

The ambassador’s assistant makes a nervous whimper, catching Aberforth’s attention for a short burst. “Why are you here? There’s no need. I’m quite capable of walking from one building to the next.” He calls after her retreating back as softly as a cannon. “Tell Toddan I want the revised itinerary on my PADD in the next hour; I don’t care if he has to sweat to make it happen. And tell Grev she’s coming back with me to the Embassy until Onadera makes berth. She can’t use her from up there and I have work to get done.”

He looks back to Jim who’s standing with his arms crossed, waiting for Aberforth to catch up with him in the conversation. Squinting at him with thinly-veiled irritation, the ambassador seems to weigh the seriousness of Jim’s tone. He must hear something because he does calm. “Damn it, man, you know that’s not what I mean.” He seats himself at the table, taking Spock’s place without invitation. Spock, who’s been raised by diplomats but not in diplomacy, nonetheless steps away carefully.

“Would you care for some refreshment?” he asks.

“That won’t be necessary,” says Aberforth without turning to look at him. Spock raises an eyebrow at Jim who can only shrug in apology.

“Well, sit down, boy,” says Aberforth, slapping the table, “we’ve news to discuss.”

The news, it seems, is that in the intervening months the Federation has decided to push for more favorable terms, despite the first session ending with agreement between all parties on how to proceed. Aberforth doesn’t seem to care that Spock’s in the room; if nothing else, he makes it sound like Spock probably already knows the political geography. Jim thinks about it - maybe he does. The problem was that someone further up the chain had failed to rein in their hunger and, tongues loosened on seasonal spirits, had let loose a diatribe indicating that the Vulcans, for their part, should be genuflecting for admittance to the Federation. Talk had inevitably wound back to the Vulcan High Command who were now demanding a re-drawing of lines. No one liked to have their pride exposed, least of all a race of incredibly secretive and private individuals who didn’t know why what they did was anyone’s business but their own, even if they’re about to join an intergalactic governing force.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Jim asks, wondering what it has to do with him. “Sounds like talks are going the way they always do. Some posturing here, some grandstanding there.” He’s straddling one of the stools now, and Spock has come to sit next to him, not close enough to touch, but close enough to have his presence felt.

“Yes, quite,” Aberforth agrees, “but it does make things a damn sight more difficult. Onadera’s going to push to keep us on calendar, but if she meets with resistance, you could be waiting a long while to get a ring on your finger.” He looks at Jim meaningfully, adding, “They’ll ground you ’til it happens.”

It’s not what Jim wants to hear. He’s spent the past few years of his life at the whim of decisions from the Admiralty but he’d known that going in. Half of being commissioned to a military force is dealing with shit rolling downhill, and he’d gone in knowing he’d have to hold his tongue and do as he’s told. But this is something else entirely. What’s he supposed to do, wait down here while his crewmates and fellow officers are out in the blue facing off against Klingons and Romulans and who knows what else? It hadn’t sat right with him having to take a year out anyway - he didn’t understand why he had to come to Vulcan at all if he wasn’t part of the proceedings. But someone had deemed it was important that Jim show his face so he’d packed his bags and made his way out here. To hear he could be grounded indefinitely was not what Jim had agreed to.

Next to him, Spock has been following the conversation carefully. “What can be done to achieve a favorable outcome?” he asks, practical as ever.

“No need to worry about that,” Aberforth says dismissively, “best leave that to the experts. But you might start entertaining this formal courtship, don’t you think? Meet somewhere public where people can get a good look at you. Won’t do much for the Vulcans - no offense Mr. Spock - but could turn the tide of popular opinion back home if the people can see the two of you making nice. It would be cruel, wouldn’t it, to separate a blossoming romance?” He laughs a little, knocking his fist on the table. “Sort of thing that sells very well, doesn’t it? Stood up for duty, stayed for love and so forth.” He pins Jim with a look. “Could be the long arm to putting pressure back on the summit here.” He waves a hand in Spock’s direction. “Mr. Spock can be your mandated chaperone, keep everything above board and sanitary.” He punctuates this last statement by shrugging his eyebrows suggestively. Jim looks away.

Spock purses his lips. Jim can tell he doesn’t think it’s the worst idea, but there’s something about it that’s also making him reticent. He won’t get it out of him while Aberforth’s around.

He wonders how hard it will be to get T’Pring to play along. He’s fairly sure he’s sold her on the benefits of going ahead with this whole thing, but it’s one thing to agree to show up - another to take time out of her day for half-hearted dates. From what Spock’s told him, it’s not even something Vulcans really do. Even if Jim can get T’Pring to come out, he’s not sure the expression on her face is going to convince anyone that they’re in the middle of kindling anything, let alone a romance.

They’re interrupted by the door chime announcing Sarek’s arrival who, unlike some people, waits politely at the door under an umbrella. When he sees Aberforth, he offers the _ta’al_ in greeting, but withholds further comment, turning instead to Spock.

“If you are prepared, we may depart now. Should you be needed further, I will request that the transport be returned to collect you at a later time.”

Spock looks to Jim who waves him off. He’s not going to keep him back for longer than he needs to - he can handle Aberforth, and now that Jim knows Amanda spends her afternoons at home waiting for company, he’s less enthused about keeping Spock back to assuage his own loneliness. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, gathering Spock’s PADDs and handing them over, careful not to let their hands meet.

Jim walks Spock to the door, ignoring Aberforth’s subvocal muttering as he does. He nods at Sarek before turning to Spock and pitching his voice low. “Think it’s something I should be looking into?” he asks, as covertly as possible.

“It is your right,” Spock replies noncommittally. “I shall see you in the morning.”

Jim watches as he walks to the transport under his father’s umbrellas, the two of them clean dark lines in the haze of rain, staunch, steady, and departing.

“Not sure how you managed to wrangle an invite to that particular party,” Aberforth calls from behind him, “but you’d be wise to politely decline in the future.”

“With all due respect, Ambassador,” Jim says, not wanting to get into it, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.” It doesn’t matter if Aberforth’s resistance is down to personal experience or ground-level gossip - nothing about the time Jim’s spent with Spock and his family has given him reason to believe that they’re anything but honest, conscientious people, quietly trying to get on with the business of their everyday lives. Politics can blur the lens, he’s found; it can make the most minute things seem malignant while hiding brutality behind the banal.

“I know a damn sight more than you do, Commander,” Aberforth says, getting to his feet, “which is why I know a losing battle when I see it. Exercise some common sense, would you? Next time you go swanning off, leave a forwarding address, or—” he adds with a wry smile, “I’ll have to send Toddan after you, and he’s made it his pastime to see how many Vulcans he can annoy into submission. Ninety-five per cent success rate.” His tone goes distant and musing. “That Edosian just loves to goad a Vulcan.”

Jim sees Aberforth out into the night. He stands in the door long after the transport leaves, thinking about what he’s doing and why. Outside, the rain comes down.


	14. Chapter 14

The installation of the ambassadorial retinue in the units neighboring Jim’s lodgings provokes a change in habit for all involved. Now, when Spock returns home for the evening, Jim is invited to partake in the cultural bounty afforded to the diverse inhabitants of the lower town. It had not occurred to Spock, himself only rarely able to attend the concerts and theatrical diversions provided in ShiKahr, that Jim should wish to take advantage of available entertainment - an oversight, it seems. When Spock arrives each morning to commence the day’s exercise, Jim maintains a steady monologue of the previous night’s pursuits.

Spock does not interrupt him. It is well that Jim has made new acquaintances and is discovering all that ShiKahr can offer. In this, Spock feels he has been remiss, being unable to accompany Jim or make recommendations for activities he may enjoy. That the embassy staff are able to provide Jim with companionship and entertainment can only be to his benefit. Even so, the assembly is due to reconvene in a number of days, at which time Jim’s companions will likely find there are restrictions on their time. Spock contends it is only prudent that Jim should avail himself of their company while it is available.

On the matter of T’Pring, Spock is less sanguine. Aberforth’s assertion that Jim and T’Pring should be encouraged to meet is founded in logic, and yet Spock has reservations about the benefit of such meetings. He has not seen T’Pring since before _yonuk mazhiv_ and though he had exchanged a brief but laden glance with her at the formal gathering, the last they had spoken had been a full ten days prior to the event. Their regular appointments at The Zephyr had diminished in both number and frequency and, as was usual over the season, Spock had not been in contact with her once he returned home.

He is unable to justify his reluctance and so he sends T’Pring and her family a formal request for permission to chaperone her meetings with Jim.

While Spock awaits T’Pring’s reply - or rather, her father’s - he makes his own investigations as to the progress of the talks between Vulcan and the Federation’s delegation. From his father he learns that Aberforth’s assertions were founded in truth: the Vulcan High Command had taken grave offense at the notion that Vulcan was not self-sufficient. It is likely to be the first topic of discussion when the summit reconvenes in a few days. While the news is unwelcome, neither Spock nor his father are too surprised and, knowing his father is better-placed to rectify any breach of etiquette, Spock determines the best course is to ensure Jim maintains his professionalism.

This is easier said than done.

“I’m just saying,” Jim says, settling on the floor after their run to stretch his cooling muscles, “if I’m going to have to meet with her regularly, I should probably be working on my shields some more.”

“I do not disagree,” Spock says, falling into the first stance of _Suus Mahna_.

“So you’ll help me?” Jim asks, looking askance at Spock. “You know I can’t do it by myself.”

“On the contrary, you have proven yourself adept at cultivating a meditative state.” This is not untrue: Spock has found that despite Jim’s seeming inability to sit still, meditation had come easily to him. The mental exercises that had become part of their daily routine at Spock’s family home prior to the arrival of the _mazhyon_ had proven incontrovertibly that Jim, while unerringly psi null, had enough discipline to structure his mind. Although his thoughts continue to eddy, Spock has noticed that following each successive meditation, Jim had found it increasingly easier to achieve and maintain the light trance.

“Spock, you know that’s not what I mean,” Jim says. He pauses in his ministrations, arms overhanging his knees. “It takes two to tango up here,” he waves a hand at his head, “and in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s only one of me.”

“A fact for which I am grateful,” Spock says, moving to accommodate the second stance.

“Hey!” His protest is merely token; Spock wonders at this human habit of chicanery even over the most mundane details. “I’m being serious.”

Spock drops the second stance, straightening to give Jim his full attention. Curled on the floor, legs crossed and drawn to his chest, he more closely resembles an infant than a member of Starfleet. Spock is not predisposed to softening in the face of a creature’s apparent youth, and yet he finds himself considering whether allowing Jim to continue without practicing the melds places him at a disadvantage. Spock had broken the habit after his disagreement with Jim over the matter of _kolinahr_ and his unwillingness to further discuss _pon farr_. They have yet to further breach the topic; nor is the conversation one Spock anticipates with enthusiasm. Nonetheless, it remains true that T’Pring’s mental acuity far outweighs Jim’s and that he would indeed benefit from further preparation.

Taking his qualms and releasing them, Spock lowers himself to the ground.

Evidently Jim had not been assured of his own success, as he swiftly brings himself upright. “Wait, now?”

Spock quirks an eyebrow in his direction. “Were you insincere in your request?”

“No, no,” he scrabbles forward until he is seated directly in front of Spock, “I’m here.”

Indeed, Spock thinks, taking in the gleam of sweat at his hairline, the awkward bow of tension in his shoulders. Although he is increasingly tactile, Jim has always been careful not to touch Spock’s hands, a fact for which Spock is grateful. He waits until Jim is settled before raising a hand to his meld points.

“My mind to your mind...” _My thoughts to your thoughts—_

They are in his mother’s garden. It is a surprise; on all previous occasions, they had met in a space that much-resembled, though was not quite, Jim’s lodgings. That they are now seated on the low bench where they had spent their final few evenings before their return to the city indicates greater elasticity in Jim’s mind: the garden is of his construction. For the most part it is as Spock recalls, yet there are details which are unfamiliar to him - a tree in the far corner with pink blossoms; a flowering bush of some variety close to Spock’s feet. The bench, too, though still a solid mass of carved stone, is perhaps smaller. Spock finds himself shoulder-to-shoulder - indeed, thigh-to-thigh - with Jim.

“Huh,” he says, casting his gaze about the space. “This is new.”

Spock ignores the comment. “We will begin by reinforcing what you have already learned.”

“Picture a door; close it,” Jim rises to his feet. “Will that work out here?”

“We are within a construct of your making,” Spock says. “It will ’work’ however you intend it.”

“Right,” Jim says, shaking out his hands. “Be the change you want to see.”

It takes a moment for Jim to concentrate and then— he is gone. One moment he is standing in front of Spock’s mother’s foliage; the next he has disappeared entirely. Spock is aware that Jim is still present in the meld; though he is unable to detect his thoughts, the apparition of Amanda’s garden still remains, and Spock is nonetheless aware of Jim’s influence on the surroundings. A minute passes, then another. Jim does not reappear.

Reaching out tentatively with his mind, Spock gets to his feet slowly. He has the faint impression of heat to his left; not the burning press of Vulcan’s sun but a low humidity, what Jim would consider sticky were he present. There is a doorway, Spock notices, at the far end of the garden, a stone archway built into the perimeter which, were he at home and should it truly exist, could lead only into the desert, out into the dry. From where he is standing, Spock cannot see where the portal leads but he is certain he will find Jim on the other side.

Jim’s absence is not like T’Pring’s. Where Spock is peripherally aware of his bond with T’Pring, it is neatly cauterized save for when she herself acknowledges it. While Spock is unable to deny the bond’s existence, nonetheless it is couched in the recesses of his mind and seldom necessary for his attention. Of Jim, Spock finds he has a constant, pulsing awareness. Even though he has ceased to manifest within the meld, Spock can sense his presence. It is the decision of an instant that leads Spock through the archway.

He emerges on Earth. Though Spock has not had the opportunity to travel to his mother’s homeworld, he has seen enough holos of the planet to recognize the particular shade of blue in the sky. The air shifts about him; he is in a field of golden stalks, some sort of grain crop that has yet to be harvested, brushing idly past his knees as he ventures forward. Looking about, the crop stretches for miles. There is a structure on the horizon and no Jim but for the knowledge that he is close by. Spock perceives the weight of his amusement, closer than he had expected.

In the absence of other salient information, Spock begins to walk in the direction of the structure in the distance. There are no other markers of direction; the sun is directly overhead, and there is a low chirping sound at intervals - a native insect, Spock surmises. For all that Spock is unable to see him, Jim’s presence here is palpable - the crop shifts, ruffled by a traveling breeze that triggers an incipient shiver; Spock is not used to cooler temperatures. It is not cold, but certainly cooler than on Vulcan. He feels the warm weight of Jim’s regard. He is close by.

Spock is not concerned by being left unattended; it is a natural state for him and the nature of his familial bonds ensure he is never alone, even when such a thing might be his greatest wish. But he is not alone here. Jim is coy and quietly delighted; he is enjoying himself. Spock can detect the presence of something else, something more akin to hunger. It ghosts low in his gut, a prickling awareness of his wider surroundings - a growing appetite he has yet to sate. It is not his own, but he owns its mirror, its twin-half. His heart jumps in his side, grounding.

The sound of movement to his aft is all the warning he has before he feels a gust of warm breath caress his ear, Jim’s voice low and soft and intimate. “Found you.”

He buckles.

A rush of heat storms his body, licking across his nerves and sparking like sandfire, hot and bright and all-encompassing - so startling that he throws up his own shields out of defense and pushes hard. The meld breaks; Spock opens his eyes to find he is very close to Jim, both of them bowed over, panting with exertion as though they have run a great distance under a midday sun. Jim is cradling his head. “—Spock?”

Spock stands. “I apologize.” Despite his best efforts, he knows he is flushed. He is suffering paresthesia, particularly in his extremities, his hands almost fragile with sensation.

“No, it’s all right,” Jim says, looking up at him carefully. He has risen into a half-crouch. “I shouldn’t have startled you.” He frowns - makes to reach out, but delays, dropping his hand in reconsideration. “Are _you_ all right?”

“I must prepare for the day,” Spock says shortly, in want of privacy so he can fortify his shields and regain control over his autonomic responses. He is flushed, he knows; he thinks briefly of that whistle of air past his ear and shores his knees against collapse. He must leave the room, he thinks, he must go now.

He lingers momentarily, seeing remorse in the lines of Jim’s body - his shoulders are low; he is distressed and watchful. Spock feels himself soften somewhat. “You continue to display an above-average ability for compartmentalizing. I am unfamiliar with a tango, but I believe you may be more capable of entertaining yourself in this manner than previously asserted.”

Incongruously, Jim laughs, the tension dissipating. “Probably not, but thanks.” He casts a glance down the length of Spock’s body, assessing; Spock feels it like the glancing blow of a _lirpa_ , cut open and exposed.

Jim nods to the door knowingly. “You should take your shower.”

Spock takes the opportunity to flee.

  
  


Despite the events of that first meld, they convene a second time a day later to practice defensive maneuvers. “I know it was an accident,” Jim had said over breakfast the day before, “but I was thinking about it, and it would be good to know how to do it on purpose.”

Spock is skeptical as to Jim’s ability to overpower T’Pring should she attempt to exert undue influence on him, but he also sees the benefit of the exercise. Vulcans are not the only telepathic species Jim is likely to encounter in his time with Starfleet. It is prudent that he should be taught to defend his mind.

Careful to ensure his controls are firmly in place, Spock brings Jim into another meld. This time he constructs the sparring pit they make use of while in ShiKahr. The basic principle of ejecting an unwanted presence is to _push_ firmly. A stronger mind will be able to resist the force, much as a stronger body will resist the impact of a weaker one. “If you are able to best the intruder, you will be able to evict them,” Spock explains, “but sparring is merely a visual representation to allow your mind to understand the precepts. You will be in mental, not physical, combat.”

“It’s like the door,” Jim says, understanding quickly. “It’s not really a door, it’s just a way of understanding opening and closing access.”

“Indeed,” Spock says, settling into a defensive position. “Attempt to dislodge me.”

Jim has learned a great deal in sparring with Spock - he is not so quick to rush for his knees, despite his baser instincts. Instead he begins by circling for an opening, then strikes, is barred, feints, strikes again and connects— Spock blocks him cleanly and steps aside; Jim’s next strike meets air.

“This is a battle of the mind,” Spock reminds him, evading a swinging punch, taking Jim’s arm and using his own sense of momentum to bring him to the ground. “The laws of physics do not apply. They are a construct of your mind.” He releases Jim, then steps back, allowing him to rise to his feet.

“A battle of the mind, right,” Jim repeats, breathing heavily, throwing himself into another volley of attacks. “I’m battling - your - mind— _oof_.”

He lands heavily, Spock leaning over him.

“Jim, you are allowing the conceit of our environs persuade you that you must follow the rules of combat,” Spock says, watching as Jim curls up until he is seated. “This is not so. That we are sparring is merely a metaphor. Our minds are engaged, not our bodies. Think carefully about the problem at hand.”

Jim squints up at him. His thoughts are shielded, yet clamorous. Here, as outside his mind, every one passes glancingly over his face. Spock is given cause to recall the elasticity of his expression, so much more malleable than Spock’s own.

“Think outside the box?” he muses to himself. “Sure, I can do that.” He gets to his feet, brushing the dust off his legs before coming to stand opposite Spock. “I don’t have to win, I just have to push you out.”

Before Spock can answer, Jim revises his approach and rushes for his legs. Though Spock braces himself, Jim nonetheless makes contact and, unlike in reality, ignores Spock’s steadfast leverage against the ground. He believes he can move Spock, and so he does: the abrupt force of impact forces Spock from the meld. He opens his eyes to come face-to-face with a grinning Jim, the memory of their collision bruising and slick.

“So that worked, right?”

“Indeed.”

They try again thrice more, and at each opportunity it takes Jim less time to evict Spock. Admittedly, Spock is not putting up the greatest of defenses. It is important for Jim to learn the motion of expulsion, the way his mind behaves in these moments, so he can recreate them again and again, with less thought and more impulse. An hour has passed by the time Spock brings their session to a halt, and by then they are competing on more even terms, Jim’s ability to compartmentalize different stimuli aiding him in his defense.

The final time they break the meld, Spock instinctively reaches out to ease the strain - a quick flick of his fingers that draws out the sting of overwork, a motion he has seen his father perform for his mother many times. It is earned; Jim has worked hard. At Spock’s touch, the tension eases from Jim’s shoulders, and he smiles at him, sluggish in the aftermath of sudden release.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “Probably overdid it that time.” He lies back on the floor, arching his back to stretch the muscles. Spock looks away.

“To end a meld so abruptly is hardly common,” Spock agrees. “It is important to disengage with care, though such an avenue was not available to us at this time.”

Jim squints at him from his place on the floor. “It’s not like you to push. Everything all right?”

"’All right’ has variable meanings,” Spock intones for the purpose of seeing Jim roll his eyes in frustrated amusement. The word _all right_ sits awkwardly in his mouth; he finds himself enunciating the vowels in particular.

Jim sits up on his elbows. “You’re deflecting.”

“I have received word from T’Pring’s father,” Spock says. “You have been granted permission to commence your formal courtship.”

Jim nods his head from side to side in wide-eyed, slack-mouthed acknowledgement. He looks dazed. Spock can sympathize with the idea if not the fact.

He exhales heavily. “Back to it, I suppose.” He looks over to Spock. “Think I’m ready?”

“I lack the required evidence to make such a supposition—” Spock says, but Jim cuts him off with a rough laugh, head hanging back over his shoulders as he looks up at the ceiling in exasperation.

“Just say yes, Spock,” he says. His shirt has ridden up, revealing a thin strip of skin.

Spock composes himself, raising an eyebrow as he does, aware of his expected role in the interaction. “I am unable to lie.”

Jim laughs.

  
  


Spock determines that the best way to avoid further impinging on T’Pring’s schedule is to bring Jim along to their previously scheduled appointment at The Zephyr - the unavoidable consequence of which is that Spock has little to no opportunity of speaking with T’Pring directly. He wishes to ascertain, as best he can, her well-being, but also her family’s opinion on Jim, and whether she can be persuaded to cooperate with him on the subject of the marriage.

Spock had not been present for Jim and T’Pring’s second meeting, nor had he inquired after the proceedings to either party - that the _koon’ul_ had proceeded had been evidence enough that, regardless of her personal preference, T’Pring had capitulated to the request made of her and had agreed to proceed with the marriage. In retrospect, Spock had been remiss in not engaging her on the topic sooner. He is aware that she had not volunteered herself for the role; he is equally aware of her family’s appetite for social standing. Spock’s family name had been enough to best his inferior genetics; the weight of the treaty will be more than ample to supplant the indignity of marrying a human. Yet it is also true that T’Pring cannot be relied upon to behave according to consensus. It is an attribute for which Spock holds a private fondness; nevertheless, it is a variable he must take into account when calculating the prospective success of the treaty.

Jim, similarly, is an outlier. Though he is human, he does not share many traits with Spock’s mother, and so Spock is unable to accurately predict his behavior or attitude. Following his initial meeting with T’Pring, he had succumbed to a state of frantic unrest, one which had only grown as they approached the second gathering. And yet, whatever had transpired between them before they emerged to recite the ritual vows had been enough to be conciliatory: the confidence he espouses in all other realms of his life was restored somewhere in Spock’s absence. That he will ultimately do what is required of him to make the treaty a success is not in question; what exactly that entails is the greater concern.

T’Pring is already seated when they arrive at The Zephyr. She has before her a PADD and a tall glass of juice, a divergence in custom for her, but one Spock is unwilling to question. Her presence could equally be deemed a divergence in custom. He nods to her in greeting before indicating Jim should sit while Spock procures them each a beverage.

“Do they do coffee here?” Jim asks, settling into his chosen seat. “I would literally kill for a cup of coffee.” He has, Spock notes again, a propensity for indulgence, even in the mundane. He sits with an easy sprawl, hips forward on the chair, one arm slung over the back. He is unkempt. Beside him, T’Pring has yet to raise her eyes from her PADD though Spock has no doubt that she is scrutinizing their every interaction.

When he returns from the counter, a cup of tea and a mug of coffee in hand, little has changed. However louche his demeanor, Jim seems coiled for confrontation, an air that does not bode well. Spock once again finds himself questioning the High Command’s wisdom in choosing this course of action; questions moreover Aberforth’s insistence on a chaperone. Such things are necessary between _kugalsu_ when they are young to ensure none come to harm during guided melds. For Spock to be present now seems arbitrary and unnecessary and, even more so, discomfiting. While it may be prudent to have a mediator should Jim and T’Pring fail to be cordial, it remains true that Spock’s presence as witness to proceedings is also an encumbrance.

He looks to Jim. Jim looks back. The silence continues.

“Are your family in good health?” Spock asks at last, earning him a gesture of incredulity from Jim and a wryly cocked eyebrow from T’Pring. This, at least, is common ground.

“Indeed,” T’Pring answers, taking a sip from the tall glass. She looks at Spock as if to inquire what redundant question he will ask next.

Spock is undeterred. “I offer my congratulations on the completion of your research paper,” he says. “I have not yet had the opportunity to read it myself, but am informed by reliable sources that the conclusions drawn will have great import for the field of quantum mechanics.”

“A conclusion received does not hold equal value to a conclusion drawn,” T’Pring says lightly. Though there is censure in her words, Spock detects a softening of her features. She is humoring him.

“Now, hold on—” Being less accustomed to T’Pring’s manner, Jim takes umbrage. Coffee spills over the lip of his mug as he gestures in protest. “Learn to take a compliment.”

His behavior has the desired effect of drawing T’Pring’s attention but equally so her contempt.

“It is not the Vulcan way to offer flattery,” T’Pring says. “Spock has offered an assessment based on fact which engenders neither approval nor disapproval. To offer gratitude would be disingenuous.”

Jim sniffs in disregard. “It’s not the human way to let praise go answered.” He looks her in the eye. “It’s rude.”

“Yes,” T’Pring replies, “I have seen humans engage in this practice of false modesty. It is illogical to give praise for an act which does not induce it; illogical yet to offer gratitude for praise that is spuriously given.” She turns to Spock, lifting her glass to take a dainty sip. “He is not educated in our ways. Given this, I must conclude that your attempts have been unsuccessful.”

“He,” Jim says, waving a hand in front of T’Pring’s face, “is right here. Why don’t you talk to me about what has or hasn’t been successful? Also,” he turns abruptly, leaning over the table to address Spock, “this coffee tastes like coolant.”

That it is a statement does not immediately follow that it does not require an answer. Much of what Jim proffers he does so in expectation of a return. “The tea is satisfactory,” Spock replies.

“Oh, my god,” Jim mutters, looking away.

“Perhaps,” Spock offers, returning his cup to the table, “it would be best to state your reasons for attending.”

“Aberforth said I have to—”

“— my father required it of me.”

They exchange a glance of mutual regard.

“Well, that’s something we’ve got in common,” Jim says, sitting back in his chair. “Neither of us wants to be here.”

“Even so, it has been asked of you,” Spock says. “Perhaps you have more in common than you first assumed.”

“An alignment of circumstance does not portend an alignment of natures,” T’Pring says.

“Yet it is also true,” Spock replies, “that it may serve you better than a misalignment.” He raises his cup to drink his tea, casting her a pointed look over the brim. “A child could deduce as much.”

Were T’Pring the type to bristle, no doubt she would seethe now. As it is, she inhales deeply before turning to Jim, Spock no longer worthy of her consideration. He wonders briefly whether she had thought she would have his support; that she sees his mild reproach as a sign of its absence is telling. Spock does not have the language to explain that he, more than others, has no reason to see T’Pring fail in her endeavors. Rather, it is his enduring espousal of her that leads him to cajole her into her better decisions.

“In human courtship,” Spock says, offering a kindness, “the relevant parties share details of one another’s lives in order to foster intimacy. Among Vulcans, such information is reserved to the realm of privacy, ultimately rendered null by the bond.” T’Pring does not look to him, but Jim is paying careful attention. “As a healer did not assist you in the forming of the _koon’ul_ , it is conceivable that a more human approach may be of benefit to you both.”

“You reckon, Spock?” Jim asks with a droll smile. “Well, T’Pring, what’s your favorite color?”

“It is illogical to have a preference—” T’Pring begins before Jim waves her off.

“I don’t think that’s going to cut it, do you?” He directs this last at Spock, as though there is a shared confidence between them. While this is accurate, Spock is uncertain as to what Jim wishes of him. Spock has made no secret of his desire to see the treaty come to fruition. To show a preference to either Jim or T’Pring would be in error, each of them vying for dominance and each of them vying for Spock’s tacit approval. Jim at least has the pretext of being human: emotional desires are not necessarily rational ones. But that T’Pring in her own manner looks to him for some unnamed quality - reassurance, perhaps, or a display of logic that matches her own - is not something Spock could have foreseen. He is accustomed to T’Pring’s demands of him, and of her propensity for testing his reserve when least expected; perhaps this is more of the same.

When Spock fails to answer, Jim sighs in resignation. He raps his knuckles on the table once before standing. “I’m going to get something I can actually stomach,” he says, squeezing Spock’s shoulder as he passes on his way to the counter. The touch does not escape T’Pring’s notice.

“You have established a rapport with the Commander,” she notes, putting aside her glass, its contents still half-full.

“I have had many occasions on which to make his acquaintance and learn his character,” Spock says.

“Indeed,” T’Pring replies, catching his eye, “an entire season of occasions.”

Spock hears the censure T’Pring does not allow into her tone. “As his host—”

“A duty you assigned yourself,” T’Pring says, cutting him off. “I do not dispute your particular suitability to the role—”

“You refer, no doubt, to my patience,” Spock says.

“I refer,” T’Pring replies, “to your human parentage.”

“It is curious to me that my human parentage should be so deserving of remark,” Spock says, abandoning his tea completely, “and that my Vulcan parentage hardly warrants mention.”

“I have seen more evidence of the former than the latter,” says T’Pring. “Your association with the human—”

“— the Commander—”

“—has proven to be of benefit to him and of detriment to you.” She casts a glance over Spock’s demeanor. “You become more human every day.”

Spock sits back in his seat, allowing the blow to land. That he had been aware of its inevitability did nothing to lessen his impact; he takes a moment to fortify himself against his disquiet. Though he has been subject to prejudice on the grounds of his heritage his whole life, he has always found it difficult to quell his distemper on the matter - a further sign, many would suggest, of the over-influence of his mother’s genetics.

“We are not here to discuss your invariable opinion on my heritage,” Spock says, raising his hand to forestall further interruption. “The facts of my biology remain unchanged, as does the fact of your impending bonding. Does it not seem inefficient to goad Jim when it would be to your benefit to come to an accord with him instead?”

“Jim?” T’Pring asks, the sound awkward in the round of her mouth.

“The Commander—”

“Jim,” she says again. Spock detects a sharpening interest in her gaze - one he has seen directed at many things in his life, but not towards him. When he was younger he had some small hope that he might one day be the focus of her attention, if even for a short while. Once they reconciled their differences, albeit in T’Pring’s favor, Spock had realized that being beneath T’Pring’s notice was often safer than being the subject of it. She tilts her head inquisitively; Spock spares a passing thought to Jim’s whereabouts.

“You have formed an attachment to the Commander,” she says. It is not a question.

Spock does not expend words refuting her. “You may do so yourself should you make the effort required of you to ensure the match is a success.”

“An emotional attachment,” she continues, as though uninterrupted. “A common trait among the males in your family.”

“You are determined to detract from the topic of our discussion,” Spock intervenes, firmly resolved to correct the course of the conversation, “which is that you have been unwilling to make the necessary efforts to ensure the success of the partnership into which you have been entered. You have failed to accept that which is,” he adds, “and your refusal to accept is illogical.”

T’Pring straightens under the admonishment. “Perhaps I am ill-suited to the task.”

“You equivocate.”

“That sounds like a human trait,” Jim says, returning from his errand. He has in hand a bottle of the energy drink Spock had previously stocked for him - one for which he had previously expressed a distaste. He eschews his previous seat, taking the chair adjacent to Spock instead, shrugging when he sees Spock inspecting his beverage of choice. " _Sash-savas_ is an acquired taste,” he says, droll. “I’ve acquired it.”

When he sits, Jim is much closer than before. His leg brushes Spock’s as he scoots himself forward under the table. Though the touch is hidden from view, T’Pring straightens in alarm when it happens, as though the shock of contact has pulsed through the table and into her limbs by violent osmosis.

A maelstrom of panic whips through Spock’s body; he looks up to see it mirrored in T’Pring’s eyes, for once as open and voluble to him as Jim’s.

He had struggled, as a child, to meet T’Pring’s exacting standards for shielding their _koon’ul_. For a long time he had believed the fault lay within himself - that he lacked the discipline necessary to minister his own mind, and that T’Pring’s own ability to close off her end of the bond reflected poorly on his suitability as her _sa-kugalsu_. It was no wonder, he had thought, that she possessed no interest in him as her future bondmate when he was unable to perform the most basic task asked of him.

He had been taught to shield from infancy, of course, but following the _koon’ul_ he had come to believe that his father had covered for his weakness by compensating for him within their familial bond. In hindsight this was an illogical conclusion to draw - Sarek had not shown reluctance to correct Spock where he perceived correction was warranted - but Spock had not been in possession of all the facts, namely that T’Pring asked the impossible of him. A bond can be shielded and a bond can be neglected but a bond cannot truly be silenced. Even at a distance, Spock is aware of his forebearers, his father’s parents so far from the continent, an unmitigated if unwanted presence on his distant periphery. What Spock had perceived as iron-clad discipline on T’Pring’s side had, in fact, been a meticulous display of apathy.

Over the intervening years Spock had come to realize this of his own accord, especially when, as adolescents, he and T’Pring had begun to meld more regularly in order that she could assist him with the practices he found most taxing. It was not that he was weak, nor that he lacked the necessary discipline, but rather that his psi-rating was so uncommonly high, even for a Vulcan; to offset his unintended reach, T’Pring had ensured her shields were air-tight. For many years now, Spock had not had a need to shield fully in her presence, confident in both his own discipline and T’Pring’s invulnerability. The probability of T’Pring loosening her grip seemed so remote as to be negligible.

Probability and possibility are not equal. That T’Pring did not open her end of the bond did not signify that she could not.

It did not mean she would not.

Spock throws up his shields before he truly understands what he’s doing, needing to protect himself from T’Pring’s scrutiny. It is an instinctual, animal response, not irrational in and of itself, but certainly not born of logic. His heart begins to pound in his side; his mouth is dry. T’Pring is alert to his every autonomic response, cataloguing, no doubt, his pallor, his posture, the tension in his joints. Despite the pressing need to do so, Spock is unable to bring them under his control. He is paralyzed and uncertain as to why but conscious of some perimetric need to safeguard that which he has yet to discern for himself.

“Look,” Jim says, unaware of the magnitude of what is unfolding between Spock and T’Pring, “you and I already agreed to go through with this thing so why don’t we stop fooling around and start to play nice?” He snaps open the seal on his bottle with a crack. “Our incompatibility doesn’t have to be a foregone conclusion. I mean, hey,” he slaps Spock on the back; T’Pring flinches abortively, “Spock seems to like you well enough - how bad can you be?”

T’Pring speaks over Jim, as though ignorant of his presence. “I am ill-suited to the task,” she says quietly, addressing Spock directly, “but you are not.”

“What?” Jim asks.

T’Pring stands. “I must depart.” Spock also rises.

Jim looks up at them both, head turning as he looks between them. “Seriously?”

“Please excuse us,” Spock says. “We must conclude our discussion.”

“That is unnecessary,” T’Pring says, collecting her PADD and making her way around the table.

“I disagree.” Spock takes a step back to allow her to pass. To Jim he says, “I shall return shortly. Wait for me here.”

“Wait a minute—”

Spock follows T’Pring out into the street in front of The Zephyr. Despite the inclement weather, there are a number of individuals out, some tourists, others visitors and immigrants from neighboring worlds. T’Pring turns abruptly; they come nose-to-nose. Behind them, Jim is in the doorway of the teahouse, close enough to intervene, but far enough not to hear.

From her side of the bond, T’Pring pushes gently. It is a new sensation for Spock, though now he is certain that his many attempts to reach T’Pring when they were children could not have gone unnoticed on her part.

“It is not your habit to close yourself to me,” she says, her voice pitched to avoid eavesdroppers. “You have not sought to do so before.” Were Spock not better acquainted with T’Pring, he could mistake her tone for one of despondence, perhaps even regret.

“Nor have you sought to reach me,” Spock reminds her, equally quiet. “Whatever you have discerned from me—”

Uncharacteristically, T’Pring capitulates. “The fault is mine,” she says, the admission only adding to their respective malaise. “I have miscalculated.” She looks over his shoulder to where he knows Jim is watching. “I advise you to take your circumstances into consideration. Regardless of your intentions, you must bring your emotions under control,” she says at last.

Spock frowns. “Clarify.”

“Unnecessary,” T’Pring says, dismissing the inquiry, “I have no doubt you already know my meaning.” She knocks against his shields from her side of their _koon’ul_. “This suggests as much.”

She looks up the road towards the center of ShiKahr; Spock follows her gaze: she is looking at the Great Hall whose soaring watchtowers leave no corner of the city overlooked. Somewhere in the belly of the palace, the Vulcan High Command has authorized his father to recommence negotiations with the Federation.

T’Pring raises her hand to summon a chartered vee. " _Kaiidth_ ,” she says, though Spock cannot believe they have accepted the same matter. “I shall attend again at the appointed time.” She looks at Spock as the vee approaches. “You must prepare yourself for the consequences of your actions,” she says, “whatever they may be. We are none of us without our respective duties.”

Spock does not understand. He watches as T’Pring enters the vee, and senses rather than sees Jim come to stand next to him.

“You all right?” Jim asks. “What was that about?”

“It is unclear,” Spock replies, deeply unsettled.

The vee begins its ascent out of the lower town, the antigrav kicking back a wave of humid air. It will rain again, Spock thinks, sooner rather than later. It will not be a relief.


	15. Chapter 15

Can you call it a date if two people meet to exchange insults while they’re watched by a mutual third-party? Jim’s had worse, that’s for sure.

He and Spock walk back towards his apartment, Spock peeling off early to head for home. It’s a quiet journey, air thick with the promise of rain, and while he seems fine on the surface, Jim can tell Spock’s off-balance. Whatever he and T’Pring had spoken about had done a number on him. Jim wonders whether he’s having second thoughts about giving her up for this marriage, the sight of the two of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder curbside setting off an uncomfortable feeling in his gut. Spock has a foot on her at least but it didn’t show, his hands drawn behind his back, head bowed. T’Pring carries an aura of impenetrability like a shield but she’d put it aside for Spock when she’d turned to speak to him, stepping in closer than Jim would have expected in the clear light of day. It had brought them to a level, two dark long lines, graceful and complementary. They’d looked— suited. Well-matched. For all that Spock had chivvied the conversation along, at no point had he come explicitly to Jim’s defense, a staunchly neutral party as Jim and T’Pring had volleyed.

It had been jarring to see them together. Jim had known they’d had some sort of interaction - you don’t get engaged to someone and not have some sort of relationship, even if it’s unamicable - but he’d been surprised to see that they weren’t strangers to one another. For all that T’Pring seemed determined to throw jibes at Spock, it wasn’t until her abrupt departure that Jim had realized the two of them had been engaging in what passes for banter on Vulcan. He’d been thinking of T’Pring as an unwanted specter of Spock’s past but their relatively easy companionship had an indulgent air to it. They’re friends, even if they wouldn’t characterize one another as such.

Jim thinks about the bond they have and he wonders if they’re not something more after all. After all, it’s not like he knows how it works. There’s nothing casual about having someone in your head and they’ve had a long time to get used to one another. They talk to each other like they’re playing chess, but the thing is, there’s no room for a third player. Jim doesn’t know where he fits in on the board.

It’s getting dark by the time he makes it back to his digs. There’s a light on in the next apartment and the door’s wide open, so he ducks his head in to say hi. The neighboring units are practically identical to Jim’s but the one directly next door is wider. He finds Noriad inside, making quick work of whatever’s on the PADD in front of her, and further in, on a low couch that looks ten times as comfortable as anything in his own digs, Grevim and Ankhor are seated. Ankhor is the team’s resident interpreter, so they’re not around much, but they’re the go-to for good liquor and Jim’s glad to see them. The two of them must be working on Onadera Marchese’s opening remarks to the summit if Ankhor is around. Toddan and Aberforth’s nervous personal assistant Elise must still be with the ambassador still.

Jim raps his knuckles on the wall. “Knock, knock, anyone home?”

“Jim!” Noriad’s smile freezes. “You look terrible.”

“Uh, thanks,” Jim says, running a hand through his hair, “I think.” He looks around. “Am I interrupting?”

“We’re about done,” Ankhor says, looking at him from over the back of the couch. “Take a seat.”

“Thanks.” Jim drops into the armchair opposite. The unit is surprisingly homely for temporary digs - certainly more lived in than his own, which is distinctly Vulcan in style. The team must be used to bouncing around, he assumes, knowing which creature comforts are worth bringing along. The couch, though, that’s a mark of genius.

“I take it the meeting with T’Pring didn’t go well?” Grevim asks.

“She cut out a little early,” Jim says, not wanting to go into the details. He was more worried about Spock but saying that to his new friends felt disloyal. Spock hadn’t had much chance to meet with the embassy staff and the few occasions that he had, they’d shared awkward small talk before he’d retired back to his research. The team as a whole seemed slightly wary of him, so Jim hasn’t pushed, but he felt like he was back at the Academy, trying to convince Gary Mitchell that sure, Parker was a damn nerd, but he was still cool. “Maybe she didn’t like the tea.”

“Better not tell Aberforth,” says Noriad, coming to join them. She settles on the floor by Grevim’s legs, still going through the PADD.

“Don’t take it personally,” Ankhor says, stretching one arm over the back of the couch. “It’s not like Vulcans go on dates. It was a new experience all round.”

“Don’t I know it,” Jim mutters. He takes a deep breath, putting the afternoon’s mood aside. “You deal with anything interesting today?”

“Actually, I’ve got something,” Noriad says from her seat on the floor. She holds up her PADD. “What do you know about the Enterprise?”

“The one that crashed?” Jim shrugs. “Not much. It came down hard, but Pike got everyone out. Why?”

She passes him the PADD. “One of the things the Federation agreed to before the recess was that we’d go pick up our trash,” she says. Jim looks over the document she’s got open - it’s a salvage plan to get the wreckage out of the desert. “I’m heading out there tomorrow to see how they’re getting along. Want to tag along?”

Jim thinks about Spock - the look on his face as T’Pring had departed, the set of his shoulders as he and Jim had parted ways less than an hour ago - and wonders whether having time off from Jim might not do him some good.

“Sure,” he says, passing the PADD back. “I’m up for that.”

He comms Spock before he goes to sleep, telling him he’s made plans for the following day. Spock replies shortly - he must still be up, Jim thinks - acknowledging the news without argument. Jim had been hoping for a little more than that but then he reckons maybe Spock needs the break too. He’s hard pressed not to give it to him. Other than the first couple of days after his arrival, Jim’s been taking up Spock’s time and company the entire duration of his stay. Let him have the day, grab some peace and quiet while he can.

There’s a message from Bones, too, a fairly light update about the Farragut, so banal that Jim knows it’s hiding news of some skirmish or another. He doesn’t look it up - Fleet chatter doesn’t normally bleed into the central feeds, but Jim knows where to dig it out - but he makes a note to schedule a holo call soon.

In the morning he runs through his usual routine - hypo, exercise, sonic, breakfast - before Noriad comes knocking.

“You ready?” she asks, bouncing on her heels. “I’ve got a vee.”

It’s a relatively clear day as they head out, Noriad at the controls. She’d seen Jim’s eagerness but gently nudged him towards the passenger seat. “No can do, I’m afraid,” she’d said with a wry smile, clambering on board, “it’s under loan. They keyed the launch to my DNA.”

But Jim doesn’t mind. The ride out is pleasant, the sky clearing as they leave the city, and it’s nice to talk to someone who has a common frame of reference. Noriad’s good company - she asks him about his stay in ShiKahr, carefully talking around his time with Spock’s family, then tips the conversation effortlessly into a discussion about his hometown. By the time the Enterprise looms on the horizon, Jim’s having a good time. It’s nice being out on day release, he thinks. A change is as good as a rest.

“So far they’ve been held up by the rains,” Noriad says as she pulls the vee round to circle the wreckage. It’s an awesome sight, chilling and terrible. From a distance it looks like the saucer section has cut through the planet’s shell like a knife through warm butter, but the depth of the impact becomes clearer the closer they get. The Enterprise is monolithic, a mess of metal and ash and scorch marks all over, battered and broken. Jim thinks about what she must have looked like coming down and shivers.

Noriad winces sympathetically. “Yeah, it’s a lot.”

As they make their way around, Jim sees teams of salvagers working in concert to set up what look like radio beacons while others work on building scaffolding to get them up to the higher points of the hull. From what he’d seen of the plans, Jim can tell they’re looking to strip the hull before breaking down the frame. Three teams will be sent in to scour and empty the decks. Piece by piece, the Enterprise will be unmade. It makes him unspeakably sad.

They land just as the last of the beacons is drilled into the ground. There’s an Andorian leading the fray from a holo; he’s talking to the site leader, a human woman in her late forties with short-cropped hair. She says something Jim can’t hear before stepping back, clocking Noriad and holding up a hand to hold her back. There’s a buzz of newly-generated power and then a faint but sharp scent of ozone as a forcefield is turned on, forming a dome high over the top of the wreckage. There are two batons in front of the site leader, spaced four meters apart, a break in the field to allow workers to go in and out, but otherwise the site is now protected from rain and sand.

The site leader comes over to meet them. “Nori,” she says, extending a hand in welcome, “good to see you again.” When she turns to Jim, he’s surprised to see he recognizes her. “James Kirk,” she says with a smile.

“Commander Barry,” he says smiling back. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t think I’d leave my girl to just anyone, did you?” Caitlin Barry had been the Chief of Engineering on the Enterprise while she still flew. She and Jim had spoken during the battle when Enterprise had come to the Farragut’s aid, Barry yelling instructions over the comm while Jim scrambled to do what he was told. That was before he’d got stuck in the Jefferies tube, but it had been enough for him to know that she was cool under pressure and didn’t suffer fools.

“Captain Pike insisted,” Noriad adds from the corner of her mouth, loud enough that Jim knows she meant Barry to hear. “We didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Damn right,” Barry says, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders. “Come on in - I’ll give you the tour.”

  
  


As awful as it is to see the ship in the ground, there’s something comfortingly familiar about its shape. Jim misses the Farragut fiercely. He can’t wait to be back in the blue again, stars on all sides. Something of what he’s feeling must shine through because Barry appropriates him for the day, dragging him with her from entry point to entry point while Noriad goes off to collect her report for Aberforth. She puts him to work, too, sifting and clearing the gathered debris, and later helping one of the engineering squads pry the wiring from behind the bulkheads. It’s wearing, physical work, but pleasingly so, exercising parts of his brain he hasn’t had much cause to reach for lately. He’s always enjoyed the mechanical, and he’s spent enough time in Engineering to know his way around, so it’s comforting to know that he’s both knowledgeable and useful. He has to concentrate on what he’s doing, careful not to cut something that could be useful later, so he doesn’t have time to think about anything else. His own kind of meditation. Spock would be proud.

He breaks for lunch at the middle of the day, emerging from the ship to the bright sun overhead. The dome filters out most of the heat, but it’s still warm, and the ship’s interior is heat-baked from days out under the Vulcan sun. Jim’s stripped off his shirt, sweat ever-present at the nape of his neck and behind his knees. He joins Noriad who’s found a bench to work at and they split their MREs half and half.

“I didn’t take you for a grease monkey,” she says over what may or may not be refried beans.

“You mean to say you didn’t check out my record?” Jim asks with a grin. “I thought your people were all over my business.”

“Like I’d want to be!”

“Careful, you’ll hurt my feelings.”

Noriad rolls her eyes. “You’ll get over it, I’m sure.” She takes a drink of water. “I don’t work for Aberforth directly - Toddan’s probably the one going through your underwear drawer. I guess I just assumed, you know, with your upcoming promotion and all, that you were command track.”

“I am,” Jim says, “but I’ve done my rounds too. Pays to know the whole thing if you have to be in charge some day.” He smiles ruefully. “Plus, my ma did a stint in Engineering, too, on the Kelvin.”

“So it’s in the blood?” Noriad asks.

“Something like that.”

After lunch, Barry sends him back inside, this time to work in the secondary reactor chamber. The core was ejected with the stardrive section of the ship, and the engines were cleared out from the chamber a week ago, but there’s still more to do. Anything damaged needs throwing out; anything in working order needs cleaning - of both dirt and data - before being packed up to be sent back to the shipyards for a second life on another ship or shuttle. It’s while he’s down there he starts thinking about Spock’s propulsion research.

The saucer section of a ship can run under its own steam, though without the warp drive it can’t go that far in relative terms. The research team Spock’s assigned to has been looking at fuel efficiencies and alternatives, but Jim knows that Spock’s own theories branch off from there significantly. It’s not that he’s not working on the projects he’s been assigned to but there’s only so much Spock can do when he’s filtering through the results of speed tests. Categorizing results, regardless of the topic, is not actually warp science.

Jim had come across his notes in the library during _yonuk mazhiv_ \- blueprints of Vulcan and various Federation ships laid out side-by-side, Spock’s careful precise script annotating the key features. Not for the first time Jim had wondered how Spock had ended up looking out for Jim considering the depths of his brain and the many other better uses of his time. When he’d asked, Spock had all but spoken over him, tidying away his PADDs and references, but the data had stuck with Jim.

He’d known for a while by that point that the theories the VSA were testing were Spock’s own, and although he wasn’t senior enough to lead the team, the project as a whole was Spock’s brainchild. No wonder, then, that he was branching out while out from under the scrutiny of the VSA. If Spock’s theories were proven true - or rather, not disproved - ships could be running a modified drive that was one-third the current size, with five times the power. Add to that any developments in renewable fuels and it was no surprise that Starfleet were itching to get their hands on Spock. For someone who’d never been off-ground higher than an air-vee, Spock could single-handedly change the future of space travel.

He’s _never been off-ground_.

Jim can’t fathom it. He’d been a baby the first time he’d gone off-planet, his ma taking him and his brother up to the moon base to see their dad during a pit stop. From then on it had been a staple of his life, just like the farm in Iowa and his grandparents’ place back in Vermont. Thanks to his mom, he’d known his way around an engine early on, too, getting his hands dirty with the farm mechs and helping his ma fix the vee whenever the coils burned out - which was often. He’d known early on that he was going to follow his dad up into the blue, and he couldn’t understand it when his brother chose a different path. It’s space! Who wouldn’t want to be out there, seeking out new life and new civilizations? Just thinking about it makes Jim’s pulse race.

He spends the afternoon working diligently by himself, wondering how to get Spock up into the atmo at least once. If he’s ever going to be a real prospect for Starfleet, Jim’s got to know whether he’s got space legs, right? It’s only logical to get him up there at least once - nothing beats practical experience.

It’s late by the time Barry comes to get him. She finds him sitting on the floor of the chamber, lamp hung on the wall, carefully pulling out the aft cables and noting each serial number on a nearby PADD. “Shift’s over,” she says, knocking lightly on the doorway to get his attention. “Get out of here.”

On their way out of the ship, Barry invites him back. “You’re welcome any time,” she says, looking over his work PADD. “You did a good job.” She looks at him thoughtfully. “Everything okay, kid?”

Jim gives a rueful smile. “I’ll live.”

“Been tough out here?” Barry asks, kind in the waning light of day.

“No,” Jim says, “not tough, just— different.” He looks back at the ship as they head away from it. “It’s hard to make decisions when you’re surrounded by things that are just familiar enough to trip you up.”

He realizes it’s true as he says it: had Vulcan been completely alien to him, he might have fared better. But Vulcans are close enough to humans that he forgets that they’re not, and that’s where he keeps making mistakes. Spock tells him all the time that what Jim thinks or does isn’t ’the Vulcan way’ and Jim dismisses it because those things _are_ the human way and he’s human. But he’s been forgetting that what Spock is saying isn’t just an excuse: it’s a reason for why Jim has to keep his hands to himself and his thoughts neat and tidy.

He’s been thinking about where he fits in all day, the distinct memory of Spock and T’Pring standing side-by-side glancing through his mind as he tries to focus on the work in his hand and the answer is: he doesn’t. He’s not meant to fit in here; that’s not what he’s been sent here to do. He has to do what Spock has done and make a space for himself, and he can’t expect to understand Spock just because he wants to; he has to work at it.

And T’Pring, of course. He needs to understand T’Pring as well. She’s a harder sell, though, and at least with Spock, Jim knows where to begin.

“Actually,” he says, turning to Barry. “You might be able to help me.”

  
  


He fills Noriad in on the details as they head back to ShiKahr, the last of the day’s light nipping at their heels. She seems a little confused as to why Jim wants to do this, but she doesn’t press him, a knowing look in her eye. For his part, Jim is excited. The day off has been good for him - it’s rejuvenated his spirits and cleared his mind. It’s no longer a case of being jealous of whatever it is that’s between Spock and T’Pring; they have their own business to contend with. It’s like what Spock had exposed the day before: neither he nor T’Pring have chosen this of their own free will, but they’ve committed to it all the same, and that matters. The intention matters. And if Spock’s life is taking on a different hue now that Jim’s around, then it’s up to Jim to thank him for that sacrifice the best that he can.

Plus, whatever had happened at The Zephyr had thrown Spock in some way, disturbing his usual equilibrium. Jim’s slowly coming to learn that the Surakian way doesn’t erase emotion from Vulcans, just gives them a way of channelling it. Looking at Spock and T’Pring before they’d parted ways made that clear enough: for all their stoicism, it had been clear to Jim that they were both alarmed in some capacity and working desperately to cover themselves.

Jim wonders whether he’s the cause. He hopes not.

Things come together very quickly. By the time Jim’s turning in for the night he’s got a message from Barry confirming everything is set up. When Spock arrives the next day, the atmosphere is stilted, but Jim powers through, striking up a one-sided conversation about where he’d been the day before.

“It’s going to take them months,” he says as they start their run, “but Commander Barry’s confident you won’t even know she ever landed.”

“She?” Sometimes, Jim thinks, Spock picks the weirdest things to focus on.

“Old Earth custom,” Jim says, waving a hand dismissively. His heart rate’s up from the exercise, but there’s tension in his upper chest from the suspense. Feels a little like anxiety, he thinks. “Sea-faring ships used to be manned by all-male crews, and they’d look on the ship as a kind of mother figure.”

“Fascinating.”

They make their circuit in good time, before heading back to the apartment to get dressed for the day. Jim heads for the fresher first, unable to wait and needing a moment to feel the full force of his nerves without Spock noticing. He thinks he’s doing a fairly good job of keeping it under wraps until Spock meets him at the table for breakfast.

“You are distressed,” he says plainly. He takes his usual place. Jim is already seated, hunched over the table with his arms around his bowl of grains and fruit. He looks up, mouth full.

“No?” He swallows, wiping his hand across his mouth. “Why?”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “Your heart rate is accelerated, and your skin is more flushed than is usual for this time of day" he says, before adding, “and you seem unable to still your feet.”

Jim realizes he’s been tapping the floor. He stops.

“Uh. Sorry?”

Spock observes him carefully before putting down his own spoon and folding his hands in his lap.

“Jim, if you are concerned as to the discussion between myself and T’Pring, I must assure you—”

Great, the one thing Jim didn’t want to think about today. “Spock, it’s fine—”

“—the matter was private to us and—”

“—you don’t need to tell me—”

“—should not be an indication—”

“—it’s none of my business, all right?” Jim reaches out instinctively and puts his hand on Spock’s arm where it’s covered by his sleeve. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Nothing’s wrong.” He nods at Spock’s bowl. “You’d better eat.”

Spock does as he’s told after a short pause. “I meant only to say,” he says quietly, eyes downcast, “that I would not jeopardize your position, Jim.”

Jim feels stricken. “I know that, Spock,” he says, equally quiet. “I know you wouldn’t.”

They finish their breakfast in silence, Spock taking Jim’s bowl when he’s done. He looks ready to pick up the thread of their conversation when the door chimes.

Oh, thank god, Jim thinks, scrambling to get up from his stool. “I’ve got it.” He opens the door to see Noriad on the other side.

“Jim, good, you’re here,” she says, a little flat and awkward. Jim widens his eyes at her in question; she waves expansively in answer before pointing into the apartment. Jim nods, eyebrows raised before he realizes they’ve been quiet too long.

“Uh, Nori,” he says, equally stilted, drawing a hand down his face at his own ridiculousness. “Fancy seeing you here.”

By this point they’ve spent far too long at the door. Spock comes round to see what’s going on. “Welcome. Please enter.”

“Oh, no,” Noriad seems genuinely flustered to have come face-to-face with Spock, as though she hadn’t covered for that eventuality despite the fact that in order for Jim’s plan to work, Spock had to be in. She wrings her hands and turns out, gesturing behind herself vaguely. “Actually, I was wondering—” she glances at Jim helplessly before ploughing on, “—help? Maybe?”

“How may we be of assistance?” Spock asks, coming to stand beside Jim in the doorway. Their shoulders brush as Spock draws close, Jim not moving quickly enough to get out of his way. Noriad blinks, the surprise causing her to falter.

“Noriad needs us to come with her, don’t you?” Jim prompts.

“Yes,” she says, nodding more than is necessary, the sunlight glinting off her augments. “I absolutely do.”

If Spock notices their skittishness, he doesn’t say, but he does keep a careful eye on Jim as they get into the waiting vee. Noriad gets behind the controls again, but this time Jim climbs into the back so he’s facing Spock, knee-to-knee in the confined space. Spock folds his hands in his lap; Jim grabs his harness. Noriad throws them a nervous smile over her shoulder. “Everyone in?”

ShiKahr’s a no-fly zone still, so Noriad has to take them out of the city. Jim had thought they’d be heading back to the Enterprise, but instead Noriad turns left before too long to circle around the metropolis.

“For what purpose have you requested our assistance?” Spock asks, unable to contain his curiosity further.

Noriad doesn’t turn back this time. “Something came up,” she says vaguely. “Commander Barry asked me to fetch you. I’m the one with the vee access, so it’s logical for her to call me.”

If Spock is suspicious, Jim can’t read it in him. “I see,” he says, looking Jim in the eye. Silence descends in the vee. Jim tries to think of something to say and fails. He’s conscious of Spock’s scrutiny and he wishes he’d chosen the passenger seat instead.

Sensing the situation is somewhat precarious, Noriad suddenly speaks. “Mr. Spock, your mother is Dr. Grayson, is that correct?”

“You are correct,” Spock says, distracted by the change in conversation. He turns to look at Noriad.

“Yes, I thought so,” she says nonsensically. “Of course we’re all students of hers at the Embassy. Her dictionary is fundamental for anyone planning to work on Vulcan, obviously, but her paper on computational linguistics is absolutely required reading in the field.”

“Indeed.” This time it’s Spock’s turn to be on the receiving end of Jim’s incredulity. “I shall... tell her you said so,” he adds at Jim’s prompting. It’s not much, but it will do.

“Is she working on anything new?” Noriad asks.

Jim winces - it’s a sensitive subject after all - but Spock merely inclines his head.

“Of late my mother has been collating her research to produce a new paper,” he says.

“Wait,” Jim interrupts, “she has? That’s great!”

“Indeed,” Spock says. “She posits that the rate at which Golic was transformed across the planet indicates the rate at which Surakian philosophy spread among the Vulcan people. It is possible, therefore, to predict with relative certainty when those philosophies were adopted, which in turn has far-reaching consequences for the differences in tradition between our nation states.” He lowers his voice. “I believe this to be the result of your influence, Jim.”

The idea shines a light in Jim. He smiles abashedly. He can’t take credit for anything Amanda does, obviously, but the idea that he’d been able to help overcome some of her years-long reticence is a balm he didn’t know he’d needed. “I’ll have to give her a call,” he says.

“I believe Mother would enjoy that very much,” Spock replies, his voice soft.

There’s something in his eyes that Jim can’t read. It reminds him of the first rains, and how he’d felt running into them after so many days in the desert - how Spock had looked at him then, too, searching perhaps, or with a hint of something bigger underneath, something hungrier; how it had set off sparks against his skin and in his stomach, running through him like lightning, just like it’s doing right now. What is it, he wants to ask, what does it mean when you look at me like that?

“We’re here,” says Noriad, breaking the moment. They’ve arrived at the landing site where Jim had first met Spock. Makes sense; it’s the easiest place to land a shuttle. There’s one waiting for them, just as Barry had promised.

Jim unbuckles his harness and hops out, not waiting for Spock to follow. He takes a deep breath as he hits the ground before walking around to meet Noriad. They grin at each other, giddy at their success.

Spock comes to stand beside him.

“What do you think?” Jim asks, gesturing at the shuttle. It’s one of the old type-2s, a four-seater that’s being slowly phased out for the more spacious and dynamic Class F. Still, she should handle well enough, Jim thinks; there’s not much wear on her, and besides, they’re only heading out for a few hours.

“You intend to leave?” Spock asks. His expression is scrupulously blank.

Jim smiles kindly. “Only if you come with me.”

“I do not understand,” Spock says. “In what way are we to assist Commander Barry?”

Noriad shrugs before turning back to the vee. “Just have fun, I guess.” She turns to Jim. “There’s more than enough fuel to get you back in one piece. The Commander wants you on the ground before the sun even thinks about crossing the horizon.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jim takes the proffered entry chip and heads towards the shuttle. “You coming, Spock?” When he looks over his shoulder, Spock has yet to move.

“To what end have you commissioned use of this shuttle?” he asks. The answer must be plain, but it looks like it’s having a hard time getting through. Jim feels grateful, suddenly, that he can do this, that he has the chance now to be terribly, terribly kind. It feels like a privilege.

“I told you I’d get you out there at least once,” he says. He nods at the shuttle. “Let’s go, Spock. Time’s a-wastin’.”


	16. Chapter 16

Spock grips the seat as they ascend.

He has no reason not to have faith in Jim’s skill as a pilot - he knows from their discussions that one of Jim’s many roles aboard the Farragut to date was as a helmsman, and regardless, his familiarity with the craft and Spock’s research into warp propulsion suggest he is more than capable of flying the shuttle. Though he is certainly aware of Spock’s trepidation, he does not draw attention to it, instead maintaining a steady commentary about the shuttle, both its history and design, its improvements on its predecessor and its failings in comparison to its successors. He speaks about fuel attrition, the duranium in the hull, the relative strength of the deflector shields and the benefits of the advanced anti-grav compared to a transport vee. He explains each of the dials in front of him one by one with meticulous care, and as they rattle up through the air, he draws Spock’s attention away from the ground and out, instead, into the sky.

The shuttle shudders as it soars upwards, but Jim’s hands remain steady on the controls.

It takes time for them to reach orbit, something that Spock had not anticipated, despite his knowledge that the atmosphere stretches for many miles above the planet’s surface. There is a benefit to firsthand experience, he finds. It is one thing to know that ascension will take 11 minutes, another to live each of those minutes a second at a time. The inertial dampeners fully engage after four minutes, and though Spock is aware that they continue to hurtle at high speed into the stratosphere, the prolonged oscillation of their initial climb is buffered. When they break through the mesosphere the view through the window clears.

Spock is in space.

Jim was right: it is very quiet here. That a vacuum is silent is true; that space is not entirely vacuum even more so. The shuttle has its own symphony of sounds - buffeted on atmospheric eddies, the shuttle occasionally experiences turbulence which rattles its components, while one of the monitors beeps intermittently. Jim’s hands skim the controls, flicking switches and checking displays, steering them gently until they are parallel with the planet’s surface. From here, Vulcan is a quiescent mass of red, imposing and quite beautiful. Though he has seen holos before, and has analysed the feeds sent to the VSA from Vulcan Space Central, he is again struck by the magnitude of discrepancy between the image capture and his present view. It is impossible to be prepared for the planet’s mass. Spock is aware he has spent every day of his life on Vulcan’s surface, and yet it is beyond his reach to understand the scale of it now.

He listens as Jim contacts the VSC, confirming their safe ascent and informing them that they are assuming standard orbit but keeps watch outside. If his reading of the terrain is correct, T’Khut is to their aft, her orbit tidally locked with Vulcan’s, and her moon, T’Rukhemai, is at this moment hurtling along its own trajectory.

Jim sits back in the pilot’s seat, one hand playing idly with the cover of the arm. “What do you think?”

“I find I am unable to adequately convey the experience with language,” Spock says at last.

“It can be that way,” says Jim, grinning broadly. He is pleased with himself, though not entirely smug. He has gone to great lengths to procure this opportunity for Spock.

“Why not inform me of your intentions?” Spock asks. “Why did you choose to obscure the information, and poorly at that?”

Jim winces. “Nori and I aren’t winning prizes for acting any time soon. But it was meant to be a surprise.” He looks up at Spock from beneath his lashes, suddenly shy. “You were surprised, weren’t you?”

“I was,” Spock admits, “but I do not understand why this should be relevant.”

“It heightens the pleasure, Spock,” he says. “Builds anticipation.”

“I believe the anticipation was yours,” Spock remarks, thinking of Jim’s prior agitation.

He shrugs. “Just sharing out the fun,” he says with a smile, as though such a thing can be apportioned. He nods at the viewfinder. “Is it what you thought?”

“No,” Spock says simply. “Nor could it ever have been.” He inclines his head as a thought occurs to him. “Jim, the view is not blue.”

“Uh, no?” Jim says, frowning in confusion.

“I have heard you say on many occasions that to travel into space is to go up into the blue,” he says. “This seems a misnomer.”

The sounds of Jim’s laughter echoes about the shuttle. “It’s a figure of speech,” he says, “because the sky on Earth is blue and you have to fly up into it to get to space. Into the blue.”

“I see,” Spock says. “Is it the human way to commit to an error in earnest?”

Jim smiles again. “That sounds about right.” Turning back to face the console, he quirks a smile in Spock’s direction. “We’ve got a full tank and time to spare. Want to take her for a spin?” He taps one of the screens for more information. “We can probably push her a bit, see how fast she goes.”

Spock looks out the viewfinder, marveling at the vast expanse of black and stars.

“It would be logical to utilize this opportunity to its capacity,” he says.

Jim laughs again, the sheer joy of it near palpable in the small space afforded to them in the shuttle. “We wouldn’t want to be illogical about it,” he says, smiling brightly. He brings the controls up to steer and plots an entry into the navigation system. “Looks like we’ve got enough juice to get us around the system and back.” He looks at Spock. “Let’s go.”

  
  


In the wake of their departure from The Zephyr, Spock had been given much to consider. T’Pring’s assertion that Spock was neglecting his duty in some capacity had been a cause of concern. As had once often been the case, Spock had left their meeting feeling a great need to meditate, and he had taken additional time that evening to clear and order his mind. That T’Pring had been curious enough to open her mind to the bond was ample cause for alarm; that she had seen something of note there, something revelatory, even more so. He had thought on her unease throughout the following day, finding his attention drawn from his work by some recollection of her tone or her manner that could benefit from further scrutiny.

_You have formed an attachment to the Commander._

T’Pring’s words, and in them, an implied censure.

_I am ill-suited to the task, but you are not._

He had turned those words over in his mind over the course of the day, determined to locate in them her true meaning. Furthermore, that Jim had asked for a day’s reprieve had not eased Spock’s misgivings. He had received Jim’s comm shortly after rousing from meditation, disrupting his plans for the day. Having no need to travel to ShiKahr, he had broken fast with his mother before retiring to the library where he had failed to make substantive progress on his research. In the afternoon he had retired to his mother’s day parlor to assist in her dictation as had once been his habit as a boy, but the third time he had lost his place, his mother had sent him away, more hindrance than help.

Had he, in some way, revealed a flaw so acute that even Jim had cause to regret him? What had he heard of T’Pring’s accusations? What did he make of them? Vulcan or not, Spock could admit to some small relief upon seeing Jim this morning, restless, but smiling. That he had adequately explained his absence had gone some way to relieving Spock’s disquiet, and yet he had remained unsettled, pulse at turns irregular, and the scent of his sweat acrid with nerves. Spock had not seen Jim so restive since the day before the formal gathering, where his distraction had been so severe as to require several promptings before his focus could be returned to his studies at hand.

But Jim had not been concerned by T’Pring’s conduct, nor indeed by Spock’s own. His erratic behavior had been over his covert plans. Spock sees now that Jim had been excited - that the thought of his harmless subterfuge, however illogical, had brought about in him a feverish anticipation. The symptoms had been much the same as a kind of illness: the flush to his skin, the mild stupor of his distraction, all signs that Spock had long since learned to account to an ailment were, rather, a prelude to joy. How strange, Spock thinks as they coast away from Vulcan, Jim oscillating with quiet, unabashed delight, that so much of humans’ happiness is concurrent with their sorrow.

  
  


For the next two hours, Jim navigates them to the far reaches of the Omicron Eridani system, from its outer perimeter back in towards its three stars. He explains the shuttle’s reduced warp capacity, and points out bodies of interest, from Delta Vega to Eridani-A’s sister suns, Eridani-B and Eridani-C. Suspended in the vacuum of space, Spock comes closer to the stars than he had ever thought possible. Even when his aspirations to join Starfleet were at their height, he could not have imagined such sights. Each one is truly breathtaking.

Jim is surprisingly knowledgeable in astronomy, indicating an interest that extends beyond the academic. He is a capable pilot, Spock learns, and a diverting guide, keeping up a steady but compelling commentary as he flies them through the system.

Spock had not expected to experience tranquillity in space. He had assumed that he would remain unchanged by the journey, but this has not proven true. Though they pass others on their journey - traders, Jim tells him, and on one occasion a civilian transport bound for Andoria - their excursion is mostly solitary. Territory disputes continue to exist beyond ShiKahr and 40-Eridani’s borders, yet despite this it remains true: the universe is unerringly neutral. Here Spock is one oddity among many, and is dwarfed in comparison. Here there are no expectations of logic or illogic: celestial bodies move according to mathematics and have no consideration of the trials of living creatures. Space is vast, a true representation of IDIC. He sees now that life on Vulcan is very small indeed.

And yet, he thinks, watching Jim deftly handle the shuttlecraft’s flight, that life is precious for being small.

Would he feel the same had he enrolled at Starfleet and pursued his ambition to serve upon a starship? Or would seeing the stars morning and night induce a form of complacency? Could such beauty become commonplace? Mundane?

He thinks not.

Jim has spent many years traversing the known universe alongside his fellow crew members, and yet still his most fervent desire is to return, to captain a ship of his own far out into unchartered space. He speaks of it often, the thrill he experiences at the thought of future adventures and his regret at not being able to return sooner. He is, in many ways, an unusual choice of suitor, one who - unlike Spock’s mother - would not be content to remain on Vulcan after his _kal’i’farr_. Spock does not believe the promise of a bond is enough to keep Jim from the skies, and in this he cannot fault him. The High Command’s request of him is as cruel as the one they make of T’Pring.

A sudden movement in Spock’s periphery draws his attention to Jim, who has pushed back his seat and is unbuckling his harness. They have drawn close over Vulcan once more, and have entered orbit on the far side of the planet from ShiKahr; a light on the dashboard flashes to indicate autopilot has been engaged. Somewhere below, the inhabitants of Han’Shir are occupied in their nightly meditations, while others will be asleep. The continent is black but for clusters of light bursting out like veins, a network of cities and airways, signs of life even in the dark.

“You coming?” Jim asks, squeezing Spock’s shoulder as he levers up out of his seat. He heads for the back of the shuttle. “Come on,” he says encouragingly, “you’ll like this.”

“Vulcans do not—”

“So then it’ll be fascinating or whatever you want to call it,” Jim says, waving a hand in dismissal. “Would you get over here?”

Spock disengages the lock on his harness, watching as Jim prises open a panel next to the shuttle doors.

“May I be of assistance?” Spock asks.

“Just sit, would you?” Jim says, tapping at a console behind the door controls. He frowns mildly in concentration, jabbing forcefully before giving an exclamation of triumph as a shield materializes inside the hold. Jim continues to interfere with the wiring, giving a grunt of exertion before something sounds like it snaps, triggering a clamorous shift of heavy bolts. Spock realizes Jim’s intentions just as he succeeds in operating the mechanical override on the loading hatch.

“Jim, is it wise to—”

He falls silent as the doors shudder open, the shield preventing their egress out into space. Jim breathes heavily, the manual override having required no small amount of force to engage, and he lowers himself to the floor in fits and starts, leaning forward to brace against his hands before tilting back, legs drawn to be seated. He looks back to where Spock is standing, looking at the view with growing interest. “Spock,” he says gently, patting the space beside him, “get down here.”

Jim has, in his own way, fashioned an observation port. The shielding is a near-transparent film between them and space, yet strong enough to protect them from accidental breach. Below, the planet sleeps; above, the universe stretches without end. Spock lowers himself to the floor, albeit with more grace than Jim had displayed, though he too lands somewhat heavily, distracted by the vista before him. It is night over Han’Shir, though not for much longer.

There is a pale green glow, ethereal and lovely, marking out the topmost curve of the planet below. It hovers, elongating slowly and gaining in brightness until Spock can discern a disc-like shape arcing over the planet’s surface - the atmosphere, he surmises, reflecting the coming dawn. He watches in quiet veneration as the arc of light brightens across the passing minutes, eradicating any discernible hue, a great white beam that cuts across the penumbra, startling in its intensity, limning the mass beneath from the maw of space above until— there, yes, a bright red circle breaks the crescent like an eye. Eridani-A emerges, at first barely more than a pin prick of light, growing in size as it appears to lift up, breaking free of the horizon and sailing languidly, clear into the black. It is a trick of perspective, of course; it is the shuttle that moves, the slow rotation of the planet only hastening the coming of day. Spock finds himself transfixed, hand raised as though to reach out and feel the sun’s warmth through the shields. He cannot break his gaze. Minutes pass without consequence.

A warm hand settles on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. Spock turns his head, his gaze still fixed outside the shuttle. He reaches up to grasp Jim’s wrist in return, a necessary anchor amid the quiet tumult of the day. Together they watch in silence as the sun rises up and overhead, lighting up Vulcan below. He has seen the sun rise over the Forge many times, patient and abiding, much like the seasons that come and go, each one in turn. And yet that view, that warm encroaching of day across the plains, could never have prepared him for this. He feels unmoored, tethered only by Jim’s solid presence, the heat of his hand seeping through Spock’s tunic as he finds himself unwilling to move even so much as to take in breath, it is so spectacular - far beyond the gift of language. Had he words enough, he could not spend them here. It is beyond him.

  
[Sunrise over Vulcan](https://i.ibb.co/6wGBTVY/unnamed-1.jpg) by [Em95](station-station.tumblr.com) (click to enlarge)

“Time to go,” Jim murmurs, coming up into a crouch. “You can stay here if you want, but you’ve got to be buckled in for descent.”

He squeezes again, bracing himself to stand when Spock turns to look at him properly.

“Jim, I—” he breaks off, uncertain how to convey the depth of his gratitude. He looks back out the hatch doors again. “You honor me,” he says at last, woefully inadequate but the best that he has at his disposal.

Jim crouches down on his haunches to look him in the eye, his hand sliding round to hold Spock’s arm. His grip is firm and comforting. He smiles kindly, something warm softening his features. He looks at Spock with what can only be fondness, the corner of his mouth tipped up in a hapless smile before his expression shifts, slowly sharpening into something profoundly open - something deeper and more knowing.

_You have formed an attachment to the Commander._

T’Pring’s words spring to Spock’s mind, eminently unbidden, crashing upon him like the winter rains, and he knows, abruptly, what she had seen in him, earnest and shameful and all-encompassing. Somehow, in the absence of his attention, a passing intrigue in Jim had blossomed into painfully indecent affection, the strength of which he can no longer deny, blind though he has been.

Spock closes his eyes to Jim, suddenly and indisputably mournful. T’Pring was wrong: the fault is his.

  
  


By the time they land, Spock has strengthened his resolve. Jim brings the shuttle down with an ease born of long familiarity, and he snaps off the various switches with an attitude of happy triumph. If he has noticed Spock’s reserve, he does not mention it, perhaps attributing it to a surfeit of distraction. It is true that Spock is overburdened, albeit not for the reasons Jim may think.

Noriad is awaiting their arrival. She, too, seems pleased when she sees them, casting a beaming look in both their directions. She is accompanied by a tall woman with dark hair, faintly graying at the temples. A Starfleet Lieutenant, Spock notes from her gold uniform and stripes, presumably the shuttle’s pilot. She salutes Jim as they approach, and they exchange words that Spock hears but is unable to acknowledge. He stands to one side, hands clasped behind his back. In the distance, ShiKahr’s imposing weight casts shadows over the plains, the sun descending towards the horizon. He thinks about how that must look from orbit and recalls the unparalleled awe he had experienced at witnessing the sunrise from the shuttle. He clamps down hard on his wrist, determined to master his emotions. Now, more than ever, it is vital that he exert his control.

Jim slaps him on the back, startling him from his reverie, though he does not allow the surprise to color his face. “You coming?” Behind them the pilot has boarded the shuttle. Spock hears the engines come on as the shuttle powers up. Jim’s hand remains, his warmth seeping through Spock’s tunic like a brand on his back. He draws in close, keeping his voice low to avoid drawing Noriad’s attention. “Are you all right?”

Spock shrugs off the touch, schooling his features. “All is well,” he says, heading for the vee.

Much like the journey to the shuttle, Jim takes a seat opposite Spock, forcing him to fix his gaze at a point above his shoulder. Noriad assumes her seat at the front of the vee, grinning back at them both from over her shoulder. “Well? How was it?” She exudes delight in waves; Spock has to strengthen his shields against her, his psi-rating a complicating factor in his current well-being.

Unwilling to speak, Spock leaves Jim to answer, allowing the drone of their conversation to wash over him in waves as Jim recounts the course of their journey and the various sights they had witnessed. Spock is unable to meditate in his present state, but the need is pressing. He folds his hands in his lap and breathes deeply in an attempt to center himself. He is acutely aware of Jim’s proximity - the salt-licked scent of his sweat, the musk of his body, the warmth he exudes even from his knees where they brush against Spock’s when the vee encounters drag. Every touch is a threat to his discipline. He girds himself.

Jim must have requested Noriad return Spock directly to his home in an effort to save him from having to double-back from ShiKahr on foot. Though Spock knows it has been 43 minutes since they departed the landing site, his perception of time has been elastic. At first interminable, it now seems improbable that he should have reached his destination. He unbuckles himself from the seat and turns to Noriad to offer his thanks when he is stopped by Jim’s hand on his knee. The contact burns.

“You good?” Jim asks, concern etched in the lines of his face. He ducks to make eye contact which Spock neatly evades.

“All is well,” he says for the third time that afternoon, despite his disinclination towards repetition. “My gratitude for your assistance,” he says to Noriad, nodding his farewell before exiting the vee.

“Spock!” He is almost at the front door before he hears Jim call out from behind him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” It is a statement, though his tone rises in confusion. Spock pauses at the door. He is unable to lie. He palms the lock and enters the house. He does not look back.

  
  


His first order of business following the evening meal is to retire to his room to contact the VSA. He submits his application for formal reintroduction to his research team, citing the cessation of other demands on his time. Not having been appraised of Jim’s - Commander Kirk’s - plans for the day, Spock had abandoned his PADDs at the lodgings when Noriad had arrived to execute her part in the ruse. He accesses his personal terminal to contact Sokel, requesting his assistance in retrieving the items he had left behind. There is a message waiting from Jim. Spock dismisses it without reply, determined instead to meditate and reinforce his wounded shields.

The following morning, he breaks fast with his mother as has long been his custom before departing on foot for the VSA. He arrives early and seeks out T’Sal in her bureau. Vulcans do not express surprise; nonetheless, she is unprepared for his appearance at her door.

“I wish to be reinstated,” Spock says.

She invites him in.

When he emerges, not half an hour later, his return has been sanctioned and entered into the faculty records. He makes his way to the laboratory to acquaint himself with the previous day’s data and to complete the work he had foregone the day before. While exercising his duties as Jim’s - the Commander’s - cultural ambassador, Spock had been allowed the liberty to work to his own pace, the Academy accounting for the disruptive nature of Spock’s human charge. Now that he had returned to the VSA, he would be required to meet the standards held by his peers and so, with this in mind, Spock sits to recover the time he misplaced the day before, pausing only to acknowledge each of his colleagues as they arrive for the day. He receives a comm from his mother shortly after everyone has arrived, asking after his whereabouts. He replies sincerely, confirming he is at the VSA. She does not contact him again, and so he assumes the answer is satisfactory.

Sokel appears mid-morning, Spock’s PADDs in tow.

“The Commander asked after your well-being,” he says, lingering outside Spock’s pod.

Spock does not answer.

“He believes you to be unwell,” Sokel continues, without invitation. “As I had not ascertained your state for myself, I neither confirmed nor denied his suspicions.”

“Logical,” Spock says. “You may leave.”

The day continues in much the same way. The team is approaching the end of their experimentation and will soon turn to categorization and analysis of the results so that they may construct a paper on their findings. Spock will chiefly be responsible for the paper’s contents, as he has been primarily responsible for both the hypotheses under investigation and the dissection of the results to date. He works alongside his colleagues in cataloguing the results by variance in input, breaking only to have lunch. He sees T’Pring briefly in the commissary, turning away from her as he always does when they see one another in public. Where once this was in deference to her preferences, now it also meets Spock’s own. He has no desire to speak with her at present, and does not believe she wishes it of him either.

He concludes the day’s work at the appointed time, collecting his PADDs and departing for home. Sarek has reached before him, so Spock makes quick work of the evening meal, choosing to eat in the solitary confines of the kitchen instead of joining his parents on the top floor of their home. He deposits his PADDs in his room, the notification light on his personal terminal pulsing in warning from the corner of his desk, before retreating to the confines of the meditation hall. Finding his need to be great, he douses the _asenoi_ with more oil, using it to assist his focus so that he may interrogate and dismiss the emotions which cloud his mind. Though emotions are a product of the mind, Spock envisions a Gordian knot pressing up from behind his sternum. Settling into each layer of meditation, he ekes it out thread by thread until hours later, just before dawn, it is fully unraveled. When the trance lifts, his mind is clear, but the bruise remains.

He returns to his rooms, the notification light on his terminal still flashing. Following his meditation he is more capable of addressing its contents. He picks up his personal PADD. Every message is from Kirk, the first few from two nights before.

    

_\-- Did you get my message? Signal can be funny out here. Anyway, it just said I had a great time today. I hope you did too._

    

_\-- It was beautiful out there. I’m really glad I got to share that with you. I hope you enjoyed it. You’re probably meditating._

    

_\-- I’m going to sleep now. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night._

After this, the tone changes to one of deeper concern.

    

_\-- Are you all right? It’s not like you to be late. Call me when you get this._

    

_\-- Are you not well? I didn’t think Vulcans got sick, everyone’s always so hardy compared to us puny humans. (That’s a joke. I’m not puny.) Let me know when you get this so I don’t worry myself to death._

    

_\-- That’s just a saying - I won’t actually die._

    

_\-- I called your house but Amanda said you left when you always do. Call me back._

    

_\-- Well I suppose you’re alive. What’s going on? Did I do something? Sokel just took all of your stuff. Hope you didn’t need it - he looks more liable to exchange it for credits than get them back to you in one piece. Did you get recalled to the Academy? Call me._

    

_\-- Will you just let me know you’re all right?_

The last messages are from the middle of the night, long past the time Kirk should have been asleep. The words are mistyped, punctuation awry, and it takes Spock time to decipher some of it.

    

_\-- see if id o you a faovr again it wa s meant to make yous happy btua i spupose thats too mcuh o ask of a vukacn_

    

_\-- shit is dint mean that s ock i_

    

_\-- wikll you jst call me_

    

_\-- look i dint mean for it to be lie ths i’m sorry. it was too much. i ge that now. i thought you’d like it i thought if you could sjuts ee what’s its like out there then you could undersynad. prhaps that’s unfair. will yu please call me in he morning i just want to talk to you. i dont know hwat happned ajd im sorry. i’m sorry spock. please calk me._

And finally, late into the night, only an hour before Spock had risen from his trance:

    
    

_\-- i’m sorry_

Spock clears all the messages, turning off the device and locking it in his desk drawer. He prepares to begin the day.


	17. Chapter 17

In the space of a day, Spock disappears from his life.

It takes a while for Jim to work it out. Spock’s quiet on the journey back from the landing site but he’s not a talker in general and it had made sense to Jim that maybe the experience had been overwhelming. In retrospect, it had been odd when Spock hadn’t said he’d be back the next day, but at the time Jim had just chalked it up to more of the same: the shuttle ride had been an expansive experience and Spock was probably dealing with all those emotions he didn’t like to admit he had.

He’s not all that surprised that Spock doesn’t reply to his comms before he goes to sleep - he knows Spock has responsibilities once he gets home and he doesn’t always look at his devices once he’s preoccupied with his routine of cooking, serving and clearing away dishes before he turns in to meditate. Jim’s a little disappointed there’s been no reply by the time he gets up, but he assumes that if Spock only saw the messages in the morning, he probably thought it was more efficient just to wait until he could see Jim face-to-face before delivering his reply.

The worry begins when Spock doesn’t show up in the morning.

It’s not like Spock to be late - Jim’s not sure it’s even possible. He throws out another message on his comm while he waits, sitting crouched on one of the stools, chin resting on his knee. After twenty minutes, he decides to start without him and starts warming up. By the time he’s finished, Spock’s still nowhere to be found, and the worry starts to gnaw a hole in his stomach. Spock’s an hour overdue. The sun is up now, dawn light falling softly through the windows, stretching his shadow across the floor. Spock must be sick, he thinks, to not turn up at all. He checks his comm; still no reply. Maybe Spock’s sick. Do Vulcans get sick?

He waits another half-hour before he calls Amanda. It takes a while to get through; he spends the whole time tapping his feet. What if something’s happened to Amanda? That would explain it - if she’d fallen ill and needed medical attention then Spock would be too busy to answer his comms. Jim’s about to hang up and try to find a vee when the call connects.

“Jim! It’s so lovely to see you,” Amanda says, beaming at him from the holo. She looks in good shape. “Are you well?”

“I am,” he says, surprised out of his rhythm. If Amanda’s not unwell, but not unhappy, it’s not likely Spock’s unwell either. He doesn’t want to worry her but he has to know. “I don’t suppose Spock’s with you?”

“Spock?” Amanda is genuinely confused. “He’s never here at this time of day. He always leaves before dawn.” She peers at him in alarm. “Is he not with you?”

No, he’s not, but Jim doesn’t worry her, so he feigns realization. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. He had to go in to the VSA today,” he says, slapping his head as though the memory had just come to him. “I completely forgot.”

Amanda doesn’t seem entirely convinced but she sits back in her chair. “If you’re sure?”

“Yes, absolutely, I’m an idiot.” He smiles, trying his best to look relaxed. “He had to go to the lab. Sorry to worry you.”

After he hangs up, he begins to fear the worst. If Spock’s not at home and he didn’t make it to Jim’s, where is he? Amanda’s accident, if you can call it that, had happened on an ordinary day, nothing to make it stand out until the vee gave out on her. What if something had happened, he wonders, what if someone had come for Spock? The road from his home to ShiKahr is wide open, with little to no cover. What if some bigot had decided today was the day he took care of Sarek’s half-breed abomination and decided to take him out? What if he got attacked by a le-matya? What if he got hit by a vee and is out in the sun bleeding out? Jim gets to his feet, trying not to get ahead of himself. He grabs his comm and heads next door.

Grevim opens the door, already dressed for the day. Something of Jim’s panic must be written on his face because she doesn’t ask what he needs, just steps out of the door and lets him in. Toddan is inside working on something or the other, but he stands when he sees Jim. “Commander Kirk. You seem perturbed.”

“How can I find out if there’s been a vee accident or some kind of emergency?” he asks, quietly frantic.

Toddan frowns. “Do you have reason to believe something has happened?” he asks. Behind him, Nori emerges from the sleeping quarters.

“Jim! Did you get Spock to admit he had a good time?”

The panic is metallic in his mouth. He can feel a headache coming on, a taut band flexing across his skull, and his chest feels tight in the thin air. He rubs his face, trying to keep a lid on things, before he straightens. Nori comes closer, now concerned.

“What is it? What happened?”

“Spock didn’t show this morning,” he says, before turning back to Toddan. “If there was an accident, how would I find out? Is there a bulletin or something? News feed?”

Toddan and Grevim exchange a look while Nori squeezes his arm in sympathy. “I can call the hospitals?” Grevim offers, looking at Toddan. She sounds half-hearted, not like she doesn’t believe Jim, but that she’s not certain a hospital is where Spock will be. She doesn’t seem to get the gravity of the situation: Spock is never late. Spock left home on time. Spock never arrived. Something must have happened.

“I shall make inquiries also,” Toddan says, his tone comfortingly formal. “You should return to your apartment,” he advises, “in case the Vulcan makes an appearance.”

“I’ll wait with you,” Nori says. “I can work from anywhere.” She disappears back into the sleeping quarters before emerging with her PADD and a satchel of some sort. “Come on, we should go.”

She follows him back to his digs where he sits quietly, stewing in his own anxiety while he waits for news. Toddan sends a message to say there’s been no reports of any accident or altercation, and Grevim hasn’t found anything either. They promise to keep an ear out, but there’s not much else they can do. Jim taps out his thanks, then drops his PADD on the table next to Spock’s. They’re piled together where Spock had left them the day before. Nori’s taken a seat opposite Jim, conscious that the head of the table is ’Spock’s seat’.

She’s replicating coffee for them both when the door chime rings, and Jim rushes to answer it, dread bubbling in his gut with the knowledge that Spock is keyed into the lock: he doesn’t need to ring the bell. Almost half the morning has passed; the sun is high up in the sky now, the heat of the day amassing thickly.

It’s Sokel.

“I have been sent to retrieve Spock’s belongings,” is all he says. Jim looks back at Nori in bewilderment as the Vulcan steps past him without invitation. She gestures in question; Jim shrugs, not sure what’s going on.

“Sent by who?” he says, watching as Sokel gathers up Spock’s PADDs.

“By Spock, of course,” Sokel replies blithely.

“You’ve seen him?”

“No.”

Jim wants to throttle him. How hard is it to answer properly?

Nori intervenes before Jim can lose his temper. “We haven’t seen Spock today,” she says calmly. “Do you know where he is?”

“Yes,” says Sokel, still looking around. “Are you in possession of further items belonging to Spock?” he asks Jim.

Nori holds up a hand to interrupt. “I’m sorry, could you clarify? Where is Spock? Have you spoken to him?”

“S’chn T’gai Spock contacted me before nightfall to request I retrieve his research materials from this location and deliver them to him at the VSA this morning,” Sokel says.

Jim runs cold. “Last night?” He shakes his head. If Spock had used his comm the night before, why hadn’t he answered Jim’s messages? Why hadn’t he answered them today?

Sokel, concluding there’s nothing more to be collected, makes for the door. Jim calls out after him, feeling helpless. “Wait, Sokel— is he all right? Spock, I mean,” he clarifies unnecessarily. “He’s not unwell?”

“I am not aware of his condition,” Sokel replies. “I must depart.”

Jim lets him go this time. He sits back down at the table. The hell is going on?

He startles when Nori slides the coffee under his nose. She looks sad, like she knows something Jim doesn’t. “Drink up,” she says, settling down across from him. “You’ll feel better.”

  
  


It takes the rest of the day for Jim to even start to get his head around it. He shoots Spock another comm or five, half-resolved to go to the VSA and call him out, but— no, that hadn’t worked so well for Jim before and besides, sometimes Spock could be this way, suddenly taciturn when some invisible line has been crossed. Maybe he just needed time to adjust. He’d come around, right?

Jim thinks about the day before, how good it had felt watching Spock take his first flight into space - how goddamn happy he’d been, up in the blue with Spock by his side. He’d arranged the ride thinking it would be a nice thing to do, a gift for Spock who put up with so much and never asked for anything in return; someone who’d spent their career trying to make a difference to the future of space flight and had never even left the planet’s surface. Sure, keeping a secret from Spock had its own side-effects, but by the time they’d hit standard orbit, Jim knew it’d been the right thing to do. Spock looked so openly awed that Jim couldn’t be sorry, not for any of it. He could have watched Spock’s face contort in wonder all day if he’d had the chance. They’d gone up there to give Spock a taste of what it could be, but Jim had brought them down wondering whether they could do it again - whether Spock could be persuaded to give Starfleet another try. _I’m sure he’d make a good Science Officer_ , Pike had said on the night of the gathering, and Jim had agreed, latching onto the idea like a duckling imprints on its mother.

Watching Spock follow Eridani-A’s path across the curve of Vulcan, Jim had almost stopped breathing.

The view was breathtaking, sure - he’d never get over seeing a sunrise from space. But, more than that, it was Spock who had been a kind of revelation, face turned up to watch as the dawn light limned the planet’s surface before the sun broke free into clear space, its bright light sweeping across the shuttle doors and over Spock and Jim both. Every shadow on Spock’s face had been illuminated as he’d watched, open-mouthed, face tilted up into the light. He was beautiful, Jim realized, alien and angular and unbelievably lovely, the reverence in his eyes a shining, trembling thing. Jim had never seen him so open. He’d never seen anything so pure.

He’d wanted to kiss him.

It wasn’t a new impulse, not really, but it’s not one Jim had managed to name until then, but out there, millions of miles away from ShiKahr and Starfleet and duty and dues, Spock so fragile in the unfiltered sunlight, looking up at Jim like he’d literally hung the moon— Jim had wanted so badly to reach out and taste that quiet, delicate delight and know he was its cause.

That feeling is long gone.

Spock must have seen it in him, he thinks, the shift from something platonic to something hungry, something a little dirtier. He’d always been perceptive of Jim’s moods, despite not always understanding the cause of them. For someone not great with emotions, Spock had an easy handle on them when it came to Jim. Where Sokel and T’Pring had been disconcerted by Jim’s show of petty outrage at the VSA, Spock had neatly intervened, concerned but practical. In the days before the gathering, when Jim was about ready to eat his shirt, Spock had offered him meditation and calm. In the aftermath of his nightmare, it had been Spock who had flicked it away, touching his mind briefly but firmly to ease Jim’s burden. Spock always knew, and Spock had always managed. Every now and then Jim had thought Spock maybe even liked that about Jim - liked that his mind was always moving, rich with new thoughts and feelings, different to what Spock had always known, but no worse for it. Sometimes, during the melds, or immediately after, Spock would get a look on his face that called to Jim, like maybe there was something he’d wanted or maybe his hands had itched to reach out and touch, and he wasn’t sure whether Jim would welcome it. Jim had always tried to stay open to Spock, thinking that’s what he needed, but maybe - definitely - that had been wishful thinking.

And now Jim’s heavy human emotions have gone one step too far. No wonder Spock wanted nothing to do with him - Jim was on Vulcan to secure a political marriage and the minute he’d been out from under scrutiny he’d been ready to break faith for just one bite of the one thing he couldn’t have. If Spock had asked him to run away right then and there, Jim would have done it, career and court martial be damned.

But Spock was better than that. Spock was noble and kind and dutiful, not because of law or practice or convention, but because he knew no other way to be - the kind of man who would give up the sky to stay with his ailing and agoraphobic mother. The kind of man who would give up a _koon’ul_ for the good of his people. The kind of man who had tried to help Jim, not because he had been asked to, but because Jim had needed the help and no one else would give it to him. And now Jim had blown it by being too— Jim. Too greedy. Too much.

He drinks himself to sleep, Ankhor arriving late in the day to fetch Nori but leaving when they see Jim, coming back minutes later with a bottle of what turns out to be Saurian brandy. He’s not sure where Ankhor finds their contraband, but it’s top shelf and it burns bright going down. Between the three of them, they knock out half the bottle at least, each shot gliding smoothly into the yawning maw of his stomach and, after the others leave, Jim staggers to his bed, comm in hand, regret sparking in his belly like sandfire.

  
  


A week into his new normal, and Jim is not doing well.

So many of his days until then had been at the mercy of routine, first on the Farragut, and then with Spock. Now that’s gone, Jim’s time is tortuously empty. He wakes once the sun is up and staggers out to take his tri-ox and maybe have breakfast. He’s drinking a lot of juice right now - it’s the only thing he can stand first thing in the morning - and then he gets himself ready and heads next door.

In the aftermath of the shuttle ride, Nori’s been a comfort. She and Toddan put Jim to work, filing odds and ends, occasionally running out for groceries or replicating lunch, but mostly looking over council transcripts. He starts to get familiar with the tenor of the talks, what the Federation wants, and what Vulcan is willing to give in return. Sometimes he sees names he recognizes - the Federal delegation, of course, and on one notable occasion, Sarek saying something cutting and brilliant to the assembly - but most of the time the talks are handled by various ministers of the interior hashing out everything from trade to agriculture to labor laws to religious and philosophical freedoms. Entry to the Federation is usually contingent on only a couple of things: acceptance of the overriding legal framework, trade and dues. But Vulcan isn’t a minor player in this neck of the galaxy, and they want certain assurances, marks of independence. There’s only so much the Federation is going to bend, but the Vulcan contingent knows how to push. It’s eye-opening, especially as Jim hadn’t really been paying attention. That wasn’t his job, or so he’d assumed; best to keep his nose clean and do what he’s told.

It doesn’t take a diplomatic scholar to know that the Federation isn’t getting what they want.

For all that the higher-ups have a hard-on for Vulcan, what they want is access to the science, and Vulcan, wary of militaristic force, is unwilling to share it. Never mind that so much of Vulcan history and culture is shrouded in secrecy, so much of their law and practice is played close to the chest, too. Jim’s the furthest thing from a diplomat as they come, but even he can tell that, despite their superior numbers, the Federation doesn’t have a lot to offer in the way of trade. A year ago Vulcan had been brought to the table by fear, whether or not that’s something they’re willing to acknowledge. But the further they get from the incident, the clearer it’s becoming that the long-arm of Federation protection could just as easily be replaced by better defenses on their part. More than that, it’s the Federation that needs credit from Vulcan, not the other way around. Jim spends his hours reading over the arguments, not sure there’ll even be a marriage at this rate.

He’s busy enough, but there’s only so much time he can spend squinting at his PADD before one of the embassy staff intervenes and sends him home. They try to include him in dinner or nights out to the Andorian and Deltan theater, but Jim waves them off, often too tired to muster enough energy to socialize. Breaking bread’s all well and good, but Jim’s practically moved in there as it is. He doesn’t want to push his luck.

He comes back to his own digs, picks at his meal, reads a few pages from the books Amanda’s lent him, then checks his comm before turning in for the night. Though it’s rarely empty, with missives from Bones or other friends, and often a broadcast from the Fleet, there’s never anything from the one person Jim actually wants to speak to. He turns in each night, quietly miserable, and stares at the ceiling, counting out his flaws until sleep takes him by force a few hours before dawn. He gets up when the sun hits his face to do it all over again in one configuration or another.

He dreams.

It’s innocent at first: memories of home interspersed with memories of Starfleet Academy and then his various postings. The Farragut makes a regular showing, but then he’ll go through a door and emerge back in Iowa or on some space dock. That’s fairly standard - he’s had dreams like that on and off his whole life. He doesn’t think that much of it when he starts to dream of ShiKahr; he’s been there long enough that bleed-through’s inevitable. Also inevitable: Spock.

Sometimes Jim dreams up a memory, the two of them cooking shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen at the family stead, or Spock sitting in Jim’s digs, head bent over his work. He dreams about the mundane, the way they’d worked together in Amanda’s garden, the soil heavy with clay, or, sometimes, the way they sat together to meditate, Spock an unwavering point in Jim’s awareness, even with his eyes closed. Every memory is golden and warm, quiet pockets of composure in the storm that is Jim’s waking life.

But sometimes his dreams change. Sometimes he dreams he’s walking through San Francisco at night and a wild le-matya’s cry pierces the dark; or he’s tasting citrus for the first time, the sour juice breaking sharply over his tongue in a way he enjoys even though Jim’s never eaten lemon, not even for kicks. He dreams the Admiralty taunts him for his emotionalism and he loses his temper, climbing over the bench, ready to break his hand on their teeth, and one time he dreams of himself, his body ragged and weak under the Vulcan sun, sweat glistening across his flushed skin, thirsty and lean and bruised.

The worst are the ones where he knows he’s dreaming, but he can’t stop himself, or change how things go. In those he’s normally walking through ShiKahr when he sees Spock and tries to flag him down. But the faster Jim goes, the further Spock gets, and Jim can’t get close, not even remotely. He wakes sore and sad and sweating, and with nothing to show for it but the bruises under his eyes.

  
  


It happens when Jim’s helping Nori look through what little of Vulcan law is accessible to the Federation. Turns out his Golic’s fairly good considering he’d only started in earnest after he’d got to Vulcan, but he supposes that’s what happens when one of your teachers is Doctor Amanda Grayson. He realizes he still has her dictionary - and her books - when he goes to look up a particularly convoluted phrase that ends up meaning something like _’made false in the assumption that where day precedes night day therefore begets night’_ which is a really long way of saying that correlation is not causation. He’s in the middle of saying as much to Nori when the door chimes.

They normally work next door, but talks must not be going well because Aberforth is in a bad mood and, although he has his own suite somewhere in the center of ShiKahr, his ill-temper spreads to Toddan who is suddenly faced with twice as much work and Aberforth’s tantrums to boot. Jim’s beginning to be able to split one out from the other - when the Edosian speaks his mind his language is sharper and shorter; when he’s under instruction, Aberforth’s drawl makes its way out of his elongated throat. The long and short of it was that Nori had turned up first thing after breakfast to hide away in Jim’s apartment, and Jim had gotten roped in out of sheer circumstance.

He assumes one of the others is at the door, Elise, maybe, or Grevim who, no matter how many times Jim tells her to do otherwise, can’t quite break the habit of knocking before entering, but when he goes to open it, T’Pring is on the porch.

“Oh, uh—” Jim’s not operating at full capacity these days, but even he can tell that’s a poor showing. He steps back from the doorway way. “Come in?”

It’s weird to see T’Pring in the context of his state-issued lodgings. He’s never thought he’d see her there, so he’d never wondered what it would be like, but that doesn’t make the reality any easier to bear. She’s dressed more conservatively than at the gathering, but similar to when he’d last seen her at The Zephyr: dark, rich robes over a gray dress. It’s almost decadently impractical for a Vulcan, which is probably why she’s wearing it.

Nori double-takes when she sees her, freezing where she’s leaned over the table perusing her PADD. There’s not really any salvaging that posture, but somehow she makes it worse, raising her hand in an abbreviated wave and seemingly forgetting any of what she’s learned in all her time with the diplomatic corps. Jim can’t blame her. It’s _T’Pring_.

There’s a moment where no one speaks, before Jim snaps out of his fugue and heads for the replicator. “Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Energy booster?”

“Tea will suffice,” says T’Pring. She stays standing.

“I think I’m going to go?” Nori says, unbending from the table like she hopes the absence of sudden movement will render her invisible. She widens her eyes at Jim; he gives a tight smile back, aware they’re being scrutinized. Nori gathers up her detritus and flees, and then it’s just T’Pring and Jim, standing in the middle of his apartment.

“Take a seat,” he says, fiddling with the replicator. He’s not sure what the tea will be like, but he suspects it’s not great. He’d noticed back at the house that Spock drank it several times a day, but whenever they were at Jim’s digs he’d go the whole day without a single cup. Jim’s not sure whether that’s because it was convenient to have some whenever he made it for Amanda, or the replicator’s just that bad. He’s trying not to think about it too much.

By the time he turns around again, T’Pring has made herself comfortable. She’s wearing gloves - a new addition to her ensemble, and Jim wonders whether that means something or if she’s really feeling the chill outside. Following the rains, the thick humidity had given way to crisp dry heat that Jim was enjoying but knew was still colder than normal for most of the population.

“Are we supposed to have a chaperone?” Jim asks, setting the tea cup in front of her.

“As I do not intend to perform a mind meld, one is not necessary,” says T’Pring, “but you are welcome to request one should you be concerned for your virtue.” She draws the tea close but doesn’t attempt to drink it. Maybe she is cold after all.

Jim pulls a face to show what he thinks of that, then changes track. “So what are you doing here?”

“Spock has resumed his position at the VSA.”

“I heard,” Jim says, lying. He hasn’t heard squat - he’d just made what he’d guessed was a logical assumption. It’s not as though Spock had a ton of options if he wasn’t at home. Jim looks down at his hands, aiming for casual and knowing he misses. “You’ve seen him?”

“Indeed,” says T’Pring. “I came to ascertain your well-being,” she adds.

If Jim didn’t know any better, he’d think she’s lying. On the other hand, she has no reason to. T’Pring doesn’t strike him as the type of person who lets convention get in her way once she’s made up her mind about something. On the other hand, the phrase _well-being_ sits awkwardly in her mouth.

Jim shrugs. “I’m in one piece.”

T’Pring raises an eyebrow, finally lifting her cup to take a mouthful of tea. It must be satisfactory because she doesn’t spit it out. Jim assumes even Vulcans can show distaste when the occasion calls for it. “Was there reason to assume otherwise?”

“Never mind.” Because he’s a glutton for punishment, Jim can’t help but add: “Have you spoken to him? To Spock, I mean.”

“I have not had the opportunity,” T’Pring says, placing the cup to one side. Not good after all, Jim assumes. “Spock’s time is currently occupied.”

“By what?”

“I have been unable to ascertain,” she says, looking Jim in the eye. “Perhaps you could inform me.”

The idea that T’Pring’s come to Jim for information she could get first hand seems laughable, but if Spock’s not doing well, Jim can’t guarantee he wouldn’t hunker down. He flushes with embarrassment, as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

He shrugs again. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him.” The admission stings. He uses the tip of his finger to draw circles on the table, not willing to see whatever’s on T’Pring’s face, blank or otherwise. There’s something quietly unkind about sitting at this table with her and not Spock, even if they are engaged. For the first time since Jim came to Vulcan, he resents it, this expectation Starfleet’s put on him. It’s starting to feel like a collar - a way for the Admiralty to yank his proverbial chain.

When he finally looks up, T’Pring is watching him carefully. Jim gestures a hand in question.

“You are not well-rested,” says T’Pring. “Nor is Spock.” She pushes the handle of her teacup with one delicate finger until it’s turned completely away from her. “Perhaps the two states are related.” Looking up at Jim from under her lashes, she pauses imperceptibly before forging ahead. “You have been intimate with him.”

“What? No!” Jim’s protest is immediate. “What are you talking about? No.”

“A meld is a particular practice among my people,” T’Pring says, “it is not undergone lightly.”

If he wasn’t flushed before, he is now. “He was trying to help me shield,” he bites out. “Not that that’s any of your business.”

“To the contrary, Commander,” says T’Pring, her face carefully devoid of expression, “the matter of your mind and who resides within it is entirely my business.”

“No one’s residing anywhere,” says Jim, “which is more than I can say for you. You’re the one who’s still got full access to Spock’s mind.” Funny how something he’d never cared about before could suddenly become the focus of his bad mood.

It’s barely a flinch - maybe a hitch in T’Pring’s breath, something he might not have noticed if everything else about her wasn’t like granite. As it is he watches as she consciously relaxes, slowly but visible now that he knows what to look for.

“That is of no consequence,” she says. Jim doesn’t know how he knows, but she’s lying, he’s certain of it. He sits back, folding his arms over his chest and crossing his legs at the ankle, looking at her carefully in return. Unlike Jim, T’Pring is more than capable of maintaining eye contact even under duress, but there’s a palpable tension at work, even if she’s cast it off.

“There’s a psychic bond that stretches between your mind and his,” Jim says, enunciating precisely. “How exactly is that of no consequence?”

“Spock and I do not access the bond,” she replies. The precise pattern of her speech makes Jim think she’s hiding something, even if the statement is technically true.

He thinks back to how quickly she’d left the last time they’d met - the easy familiarity between her and Spock, and the way they’d stood together on the side of the road, T’Pring’s smaller frame tucked carefully next to Spock’s as they spoke. It’s easy for Jim to imagine them raising their fingers in the _ozh’esta_. A shock of jealousy runs through him like electricity, sparking off his low-banked anger.

“So that’s why you’re here,” he says. “Couldn’t go to the source so you had to visit the human to get the dirt.”

“You are distressed,” says T’Pring.

“No shit,” Jim scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Commander,” T’Pring asks, “what has transpired?”

But Jim can’t answer that, not without revealing himself, and especially not to T’Pring. It’s one thing to fall out with Spock over Jim’s poor decision-making, another entirely to admit to the woman he’s supposed to be marrying that he’s maybe, possibly in love with her ex. What he’d give to be a Vulcan right now and not have to go through what he’s feeling. He’s as good as the next man at putting his feelings in a box and burying it deep, but there’s something about sitting next to T’Pring that makes him feel wide open and exposed. He tries to picture a door closing. Strangely, it resists.

“You see Spock more than me,” Jim says at last, drawing his hand over his face. “That sounds like a question for him. If you’re not going to drink that,” he adds, nodding at the three-quarters-full cup by her elbow, “I think it’s time for you to go.”

He walks her to the door, careful to keep his hands to himself despite the instinct to steer her firmly out. She turns to him as she leaves. “You are a Starfleet officer,” she says, gaze sweeping Jim up and down in the fraction of a second. “I did not expect you to capitulate with such ease.” With that parting gift, she turns neatly on her heel and exits.

Next door, Nori comes out, watching as T’Pring rounds the corner and disappears from view. “What was that about?” she asks, as though Jim could possibly answer her.

Jim turns back into his own place, suddenly too tired for company. He reaches to palm the door closed as he goes.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”


	18. Chapter 18

It is not the Vulcan way to formally acknowledge the anniversary of an event. It is no more possible for a Vulcan to forget the attack on ShiKahr than it is for them to forget to breathe, and it is not logical to ascribe merely one day for the recollection of losses which persist on all other days of the year. And yet there is to be a commemoration, at the Federation’s insistence. Spock’s father believes the show of sentiment is to remind the Vulcan people that in their hour of need it was the Federation to whom they had called out for help, as though this is a matter the Vulcan High Command could forget.

Talks are not going well.

Sarek has taken to spending nights in the city, the escalating animosity requiring more of his time be spent both with the delegation and the High Command in turn. Though Spock’s mother would never say as much out loud, she is concerned in her husband’s absence, and so Spock is especially diligent in returning to her at the end of the working day. If she is aware that Spock and Jim have parted ways, she does not comment on the matter, though she does request to spend more time in the garden. With the passing of the rains, warmer weather has returned, comfortable for Amanda, albeit somewhat cool for Spock. He takes to wearing a woollen layer while he is at home, in an effort to ward off a chill. He thinks about the cold vastness of space and doubts his ability to acclimate to life on a starship. Another reason not to entertain the thought.

Meanwhile, his research continues on apace. Although the team has concluded the current round of experiments, Spock has begun his own investigations. While they are currently unable to find an alternative to dilithium, his recent flight in the Starfleet shuttle has changed Spock’s understanding of the practicalities of space flight. To date he has used models of Vulcan ships to form the basis of his hypotheses, but Starfleet has a number of short-range shuttles in use that pose a second problem: how to maximize the efficiency of warp propulsion within a confined space. If only larger spacecraft are able to effectively utilize warp, then any secondary vessels - medevacs, trader ships, and emergency life pods - are immediately at greater risk of harm.

It is not so much that Spock had not been aware of this previously, but that his recent experiences have led him to reevaluate the relative importance of personal spaceflight. The new problem absorbs his attention: the question is no longer merely one of efficiencies but of radical redesign. A warp core is so built as to allow a contained fusion reaction. Dilithium is not a fuel in and of itself, merely a stabilizer, but it is crucial in moderating the matter-antimatter mix to prevent overloading the capacitors. Spock’s team have been trying to find more durable alternatives to dilithium while also attempting to alter the conditions of the reaction within the core to increase the output of a single crystal, while decreasing the amount of crystal utilized. From this, Spock has been able to refine the matter-antimatter mix so that he can begin to work on reducing the size of the reactor. It is painstaking work, no doubt banal to others but, as he has had reason to expound, Vulcans do not pursue endeavors for the purpose of excitement.

If Spock is particularly appreciative of the all-encompassing nature of his scientific diversions, there is no one present to witness it. Between his father’s increased absences from their home and his mother’s rejuvenated interest in her own research, Spock is able to conceal his industriousness with ease. Though he is a member of a small team, Spock has always concluded his work alone, and his proficiency in the subject means that he often pursues multiple lines of inquiry at once, a fact which had at first nonplussed the senior researcher but is now accepted as commonplace. With Sarek and Amanda’s attentions diverted, Spock is free to commit his time in full to his work.

It is somewhat inefficient to pursue his work with single-minded doggedness, and yet, he grants, the cause is sufficient. If he is able to tax his mind enough over the cause of the day, he is able to induce a silent, vacant sleep. This has become all the more pressing of late as, for the first time since he was a young child, Spock is having dreams.

Dreaming unsettles him: he remembers each one with clarity but they do not follow logic and catch him unawares. When he was a boy, he had described these nighttime visions to his mother and been warmly received with fond amusement before she had explained that they were not a cause for concern, merely a way for the brain to process experiences. It is another indication that Spock is an outlier among his peers: Vulcans do not dream. Spock had a vague suspicion that the illogic of his nighttime visitations were from the brain attempting to process emotion rather than linear thought, which is why they were so often magnified and erratic, often waking him in a fit of alarm. Having come to this conclusion, he had begun to work on his meditations in quiet earnest, a pursuit that had served him well, not only expunging the dreams, but earning him tacit approval from Sarek in the process.

The dreams he had as a child were filled with terrors - the taunts of his peers, the dark of the Forge, the piercing cries of a le-matya in pursuit. I-Chaya’s death following his heroic defense of Spock during his _kahs-wan_ had brought about a renewal of his nightmares, the vision of his childhood custodian’s blood on the dark sands of the Forge, an image that had taken root in Spock’s mind. And yet that, too, he had overcome in time. The dreams he has now are less violent, though no less disturbing to his equilibrium. He dreams often of the shuttle ride, the heat of Jim’s hand through his sleeve as Eridani-A rose over Vulcan’s surface; he recalls the scent of Jim’s sweat as they had worked together side-by-side in his mother’s garden, hands mottled with clay. On three consecutive nights he dreams he is across from Jim in a fathomless space, knee-to-knee as they had been during their melds, Jim’s mind a beacon beneath Spock’s touch. Sometimes the dreams follow memory; sometimes they deviate significantly - a hand to the temple becomes a palm to a cheek, the touch of Jim’s mind a broadening caress. Spock wakes, his heart pounding, body taut with expectation.

As such, his sleep is restless and abruptly cut short. He increases his meditations to compensate but it is an undeniable facet of his biology that Spock typically requires sleep at greater intervals than his peers. He occupies his mind with science, then clears what remains with meditation and in this way manages on occasion to wipe his mind of thought and feeling such that he is able to sleep a short while.

The days prove long this way, but pass nonetheless.

It is, in many ways, a season of return. As Spock returns to his work and his father to ShiKahr, his mother, too, returns to her vocation. As he had told Jim when last they had spoken, Amanda has been compiling her work of many years with renewed focus and, despite her difficulty, seems the better for it. When Spock brings tea to her day parlor he often finds her wheeling her way from desk to bookshelf, PADDs and scrolls and paper abound, piled precariously in some system known only to his mother. It is a stark contrast from his father’s study and, indeed, his own, yet Spock finds comfort in its haphazard non-conformity. It speaks to years of books left half-read in the library, a teacup idle on the garden bench - irrefutable signs of life, of occupancy.

One evening, when she is late to come to dinner, Spock finds his mother at her desk, writing furiously by hand. Her Standard is smooth and precise, but her Golic tends to be erratically formed, accurate but lacking the calligraphic form revered by the masters. In her script, Spock sees traces of his mother; the words are precisely put together, but sharp and elongated, showing the speed of her thoughts and undoubtedly the arc of them, each character stretching as she hastens to make way to the next. Spock is loath to interrupt her, knowing the times when Amanda is able to bend her body to her will and overcome the dissipation of her mind are few and far between, yet conscious also that to overwork could set her back several days. She must eat.

In the end, he brings a plate to her desk, setting it on the low side table she uses for her tea. She looks up at him, hand still moving furiously down the page as she goes, and smiles gently. “Thank you, Spock.” He retires outdoors to eat his own meal, and when he returns an hour later finds his mother reclined in her seat, eyes half-closed, a stack of paper in front of her, and a half-emptied plate on her lap. Though she spends the next two days abed, she is curiously content, even though the rigors of her body continue to plague her. Spock had long considered his discipline a Vulcan trait, but his mother gives him cause to reconsider. In her near-feverish pursuits, he sees an echo of his own assiduousness.

There are surprising, if not logical, consequences.

His father returns home after a particularly quarrelsome session at the summit, which had resulted in an earlier than usual adjournment of proceedings. Spock does not question him on the particulars, finding they are of little interest to him, but he is peripherally aware that the High Command is increasingly averse to the Federation’s demands.

There is a pressing need for assurances of independence which will undermine the unity of the Federation if put in place, and yet Spock’s people remain unyielding. They could perhaps foster goodwill by offering up their latest advantages in technology, yet enduring concerns around the Federation’s military prowess prevent the High Command from committing in this as well, never mind that it was Starfleet that had come to Vulcan’s defense the year before. This, coupled with the insistence on holding the commemoration at the end of the week, has led the parties to disagree on several topics, tempers flaring, if only visible on the Federation’s side.

Spock is uncertain as to Sarek’s thoughts on the matter, whether he is in alignment with the High Council or sees merit in the Federation’s position. What has yet to be made clear is what the Federation can offer of equal value that goes beyond their military presence in the event of another incursion. Sarek is unable to share much of what he has learned, but investigations into the Klingons’ motivations continue in earnest, even a year on from the attack. There are rumours of Romulan intervention, but as yet these remain baseless.

His mother’s gasp of surprise rouses Spock and his father from their conversation. She is seated nearby, having wheeled out to greet her husband on his arrival. She holds a letter in her hand, a missive his father had brought with him from his office. This in itself is unsurprising - to prevent unwanted access to their home, Amanda had long since had her physical correspondence routed to the High Command for Sarek’s staff to receive. Though the majority of her mail arrived by comm, it remained true that many institutions on Vulcan preferred physical letters, an illogical and wasteful practice that nonetheless persisted in an effort to combat concerns that the skill of penmanship was dying out. And so, on occasion, Amanda receives news from all corners of the galaxy within the sphere of her palms.

“Oh,” she says, closing a hand over her mouth as though in fear of what else she may eject. The surprise is too sudden and too overwhelming for her to retract. “Oh, I’ve been accepted.” She looks to Sarek. “Babel accepted my paper.”

Spock looks to his father as well, but Sarek is already moving to his wife. He crouches by her side in an uncharacteristic display of intimacy, one Spock has not witnessed since he was a child. Despite herself, his mother is weeping, startled, overwhelmed tears sliding down her cheeks. Spock looks away as his father gently takes his mother’s hand.

“You are to be congratulated, my wife,” says Sarek.

“Oh, I don’t know what to think,” Amanda replies; she looks back at the letter in her hands. “I never thought—” She laughs, a small abbreviated sound, burdened with indecipherable feeling. She looks up at Spock who bows to her in quiet acknowledgement, and she smiles, the expression faltering. “Accepted,” she murmurs, voice breaking, “oh, my.”

  
  


A few nights later, Spock is roused from his respite by another visitation filled with unfulfilled promises. He sits up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, and allows himself a moment of weakness, face in his hands while he remembers the last few moments of the dream: Jim emerging to his aft, the cool whistle of his breath caressing Spock’s ear. He feels voltaic, the last waves of the dream shimmering over his skin, making him shiver with unbanked anticipation. He indulges the sensation for a moment, before tucking it away and straightening. He gets to his feet.

It is past the middle of the night when he reaches the kitchen, though dawn is still a long way off, and he begins to make tea, allowing the repetitive motions of crushing and steeping the leaves to lower him into the first stage of meditation and easing the tension coiled in his shoulders. He puts aside memories of Jim standing astride him watching him work and reaches for herbs he needs to induce a mild soporific effect. He does not intend to sleep again that night, but he is aware of a need on his part to soften, and he does not trust he will be unable to do so unaided.

The crack of the internal comm rouses him from his musings.

“Spock, are you awake?”

He crosses quickly to answer. “Mother, are you well?”

“Oh, yes, quite well,” she says, her voice echoed by a faint electronic hum. Spock will need to recalibrate the network again soon; the internal comms are outdated and the copper used to wire the circuits is prone to damage. “Could you— I mean, if it’s no trouble, would you bring me some tea?”

“Yes, Mother.”

He allows his own to brew while he puts together the ingredients for a full pot. He does not question why his mother is awake, knowing only that she is and that she has asked this of him. In the months following the collision, his mother had much difficulty in obtaining a full night’s rest, and while she has improved over the years, it is logical to assume that the nascent pain still disrupts her sleep. He brings the tea to her on a tray, ascending the stairs with care.

“Good night, Mother,” he says in greeting. His mother is not in bed as he had assumed she would be, but seated in her mechanical chair by the front window, from which she can see clear out to ShiKahr. She is illuminated by a single lamp which glows warmly in the corner of the room, enough to see by, but not violent in its intensity. Spock knows that on some mornings his mother takes her tea while observing his journey to the city on foot, his figure slowly diminishing as he covers the distance. She must have levered herself out of bed, something she only does in the most urgent of circumstances.

Spock is careful not to let his concern show, but his mother is prescient. “I’m well enough, Spock. Having a hard time sleeping, that’s all.” She tilts her head in appraisal. “I’m not the only one, it seems.”

Unwilling to answer his mother, Spock brings the tea to her bedside table, then perches on the edge of the mattress to pour for her as she makes her way back across the room. From here ShiKahr is made up of looming shadows and low-banked light. This deep in the night, its occupants are mostly retired, though there are some who are still awake, those that work under cover of darkness, and those, like he and his mother, that have struggled to find repose.

Spock recalls the many times his mother had sat with him at the end of a day with her maternal penchant for discerning his unease. Before his _kahs-wan_ she would reach out to brush the hair from his forehead, telling him it was safe to close his eyes while she watched. As he had gotten older, she had come to him less, but he still remembers opening his door late at night to find his mother on the other side, enquiring after him before she retired for the evening. After sustaining her injuries, Spock had brought his school work to her room, seating himself outside her door whenever Sarek was away so as to be close at hand should she need anything. It has been several years since they last shared careful quiet at such a late hour but, nonetheless, it is a familiar pastime.

“Are you in pain, Mother?” Spock asks, despite his mother’s assurances to the contrary. Were she Sarek, he would not deem it necessary, but Spock has noticed in his mother a human tendency to exaggerate mildly when enthusiastic and to demur when in the midst of suffering.

“A little, I suppose,” she says, “but no more than usual.” She holds her teacup in both hands, allowing the heat to seep into her palms. “I suppose I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

“May I be of assistance?” Spock asks. “I avail myself to you.”

She shakes her head once. “I know you do, my love.” Smiling ruefully, she adds, “I think this is something I can only overcome alone, Spock, but thank you. I appreciate the offer.”

“The news from Babel disturbs you,” Spock tries again. Surprise washes over his mother’s face before she’s able to hold it at bay

“Yes, how did you know? No, wait,” she holds up a hand to forestall his reply. “I suppose it’s obvious enough.”

Though he had congratulated her on her efforts before, Spock wonders whether a reiteration would help his mother. He is not generally in the habit of repeating himself but he has found that a reinforcement of sentiment is often a comfort to Amanda. “Mother, I remain proud of your accomplishment, inevitable though it was.” He pauses before adding, “I have pride because it was achieved despite the barriers to that achievement. It is illogical to be concerned over its merit.”

His mother smiles, face softened in the glow of the light from the lamp. “Thank you for saying so, Spock,” she says, pausing to take a drink of her tea. An unusual wave of emotions crosses her face, some marked by hesitancy, others by resolve. Eventually she puts her cup back down, smiling again as if in apology. “I’m sure I’ll work it out soon enough.” She tilts her head at him again. “And you? It’s not like you to deviate from habit.” Her tone is lightly pointed as she says this last, an echo of words she’s heard his father say. “Are you dreaming again?”

Unsurprised by the depth of his mother’s perception, Spock merely inclines his head.

“Humans dream all the time,” Amanda reminds him, tone gentling, “it’s nothing to worry about. Not,” she says, predicting his next words, “that you worry as such, but I know the experience is rarely pleasant for you.”

“The fact of them no longer disturbs me, Mother,” Spock says, conceding the possibility that at one point it may have. “No doubt they will pass in due course.”

His mother smiles at his mirror of her own words. “Perhaps,” his mother says slowly, “you should speak to Jim about them. No doubt he has ample experience of his own.” She lifts her cup to drink again, observing him keenly from atop the rim.

His mother’s acuity knows few bounds, it seems. That she has given voice to her curiosity, however mildly, indicates she has considered the topic many times over. It is not in her habit to speak carelessly, no matter the appearance she gives. In this she shares a trait with Jim who, though often hasty, would also give the appearance of nonchalance when approaching a matter he deemed sensitive.

Though Spock is often circumspect about his own designs, such efforts find little success in front of his mother, and so he sees no reason to dissemble further. “As you are no doubt aware, Mother, our paths no longer cross.”

Abashed, Amanda lowers her gaze, acknowledging Spock’s mild rebuke. “I did know, yes,” she says. “Your father told me that you took up your position at the Academy again. I know it’s probably not something a son prefers to discuss with his mother, but you do know, don’t you Spock, that I will listen to anything you might wish to discuss?” She swallows thickly before trying to catch his gaze again. “Did you have a falling out?”

Spock does not have the words to explain what has passed between him and Jim - there is not language enough that could detail the wrong Spock has wrought, in all its many guises. He is ashamed, he finds, of the lack of control he has exerted in his dealings with Jim, being so derelict as to not notice as they became entangled. He suspects his mother would not fault him, but his mother is human: there are many things about the Vulcan character that she knows but does not fully understand. She cannot assuage his guilt in this matter.

“It is not a matter that can be resolved by outside parties,” he says at last, before changing the subject. “I believe I shall meditate now. Would it please you to have my company as I do?” He’d spent many nights on this floor as an adolescent, determined to be near to his mother in the hour of her need. The first time his father had returned from a mission off-planet to find him there, posed at the foot of the bed, he had suggested Spock’s endeavors might be better completed in the meditation hall, but Spock did not heed him. Eventually his father had deferred to Spock’s wishes.

“Everything about you pleases me,” his mother says. “You’re always welcome to sit here.”

She watches as he rises, putting aside his tea, before ambling to the foot of the bed to sit cross-legged on the floor.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable?” she asks as she has done many times before.

“Quite sure, Mother.”

He slips effortlessly into the trance and whiles out the night safe under the care of his mother’s watch.

  
  


Despite his better judgement, Spock finds himself in attendance at the commemoration. The Federation have dubbed it the Day of Mourning, though to his knowledge no Vulcan of his acquaintance has deemed to use the term. The nomenclature does not change what happened; to call it anything other than an attack is disingenuous.

Though he had intended to spend the day at the VSA, his father had contacted him early in the morning to request his presence at the proceedings. There was to be a formal ceremony to remember the dead and a speech by high-ranking figures in both the High Command and the Federation’s delegation. And so, much like at the gathering, Spock finds himself in his formal attire, listening to politicians espouse false platitudes. He sits with his father, close to the front, and concentrates on what is said lest he be accused of inattention. Across the hall are members from the Federation’s delegation, including Ambassadors Aberforth and Shras. Onadera Marchese is seated on the stage next to Setek, a leader within the High Command, who is watching proceedings with a faint air of suspicion, while the service itself is led by a Denobulan curate. It is Spock’s understanding that healers and practitioners from Gol were also invited but that to a one they had politely but firmly declined.

The ceremony is being held outdoors; there is to be a musical performance, though Spock is unable to ascertain why, and afterwards refreshments will be provided. At the beginning of the function, all gathered were requested to rise and hold a silence of two minutes in honor of the dead, another illogical practice with which Spock and his father nonetheless complied. The Federation had suggested a plinth be erected, etched with the names of the fallen, but the High Command had exercised their right to veto. As many katras of the dead as could be collected had been returned to the Katric ark in the aftermath of the attack; further memorials were unnecessary. Spock did not believe he was alone in finding the pageantry illogical and thus in poor taste, but compromises had been made.

Representatives from Starfleet are also present, and Spock has no doubt that Jim is close at hand. As the Federation’s representative in the marriage that will stand for the treaty between their peoples, it is unlikely that Jim will be able to avoid attending. Spock spares a thought to wonder whether his own presence here today is the result of his mother’s machinations.

When the assembly is finally allowed to get to their feet, Spock is careful to keep close to his father in an attempt to prevent his attention from wandering and seeking out others in the crowd. Perhaps that is why he is surprised when he turns to encounter T’Pring.

Small consolation, then, that she is also surprised.

“T’Pring,” he says, falling back on convention and raising his hand in the _ta’al_.

She answers in kind. “Spock.”

It has been many years since Spock and T’Pring have met within a public sphere. It is only natural that their paths should cross at the VSA, but they have always been guarded in front of an audience. At his back, Spock senses his father’s attention turn to him, despite being engaged in conversation with someone from Ambassador Shras’ staff. Spock feels scrutiny from all sides, despite there being little. Over T’Pring’s shoulder, four or five paces away, he sees Stonn. T’Pring does not acknowledge him.

“You had no obligation to attend the commemoration,” T’Pring says. There is a hint of accusation in her tone that Spock politely ignores.

“My father requested my presence,” is all he says in reply.

T’Pring raises a wry eyebrow before nodding in acknowledgement.

" _Sochya eh dif_ ,” she says, stepping back to take her leave.

Spock bows in turn. " _Dif-tor heh smusma_.”

He intends to return to his father when, all at once, the crowd parts as though a line was drawn cleanly between each half and he looks up to see, there at the far side of the congregation, none other than Jim.

Spock does not believe in the suspension of time without mechanical or physical aids; believes further that it cannot be experienced, only witnessed. Nevertheless, it is true that he fails to account for the seconds that pass while he and Jim look upon one another from across the clearing. He is about to turn away when a Starfleet officer comes to Jim’s side and, following his gaze, alights upon Spock. She straightens and tips her head in greeting. Spock is unsure whether to approach when the decision is taken from him: the officer turns to Jim, taking him by the elbow, and draws him in Spock’s direction.

“Mr. Spock, I believe?” the officer asks. She is approaching middle age, younger than Spock’s mother, but with a similar bearing. At her side, Jim is tight-lipped, hesitant to look Spock in the eye. He looks wan, if not discomfited, and Spock wonders whether he has maintained his exercise and diet as he ought to. He dismisses the thought immediately; it is no longer his concern.

“Indeed,” Spock answers, raising the _ta’al_ once more.

“I’m Commander Barry,” she says, offering her own beleaguered attempt before crossing her arms across her chest. “Captain Pike tells me you’re the brains behind the dilithium enhancements.” She whistles sharp and low, causing more than a few Vulcans to look in her direction, though she doesn’t seem to notice. “I saw the preliminary summary. Could be explosive stuff.”

“That is unlikely,” Spock says, “given that the intermix ration of a matter-antimatter reaction is carefully controlled—”

“She means your paper’s probably going to have a big impact with people who are interested in warp propulsion,” Jim says, intervening. “Hi, Spock.”

“Commander.”

Jim’s face, previously animated by irritation, falls at Spock’s use of his title. “Right.”

Oblivious to what passes between Spock and Jim, or perhaps purposefully apathetic, Commander Barry continues. “You know, we’re out at the crash site, working on the retrieval. It’s a big space if you, you know, want to come walk me through the practical theory.”

“You served on the Enterprise?” Spock asks.

“Until we had to bail out,” says Barry. “Been a hell of a year, I can tell you that.”

Spock recalls the shuttle’s re-entry to Vulcan’s atmosphere. Even under Kirk’s steady hand there had been tremendous turbulence. He wonders what it must have been like to have to escape a ship that is plummeting towards the planet’s surface, knowing it took with it your home. That Captain Pike had managed to evacuate the ship’s entire contingent was an indication of his good fortune, if not his foresight. Though the Enterprise was not sentient, the ship had been - how did Jim describe it? A mother.

“I grieve with thee,” Spock says, solemn and quiet.

Barry seems nonplussed. “And also with... thee?” She and Jim exchange a stuttering of glances - hers alarmed, his incredulous - before they regain their composure. “So, how about it? Think we can get you out to the ship? Jim, here - Commander Kirk, I mean - he’s been out a couple of times, getting his hands dirty.” She pauses. “Not that you’d have to,” she adds, “just, I think you’d enjoy - find it beneficial to see... the wreckage.” She blinks twice in quick succession, as though unprepared for her own words.

Spock is about to decline the invitation when he realizes Jim is eagerly awaiting his answer. It is so unexpected as to be improbable that Spock answers before he is sure of his own intentions. “Perhaps,” he says, “should the opportunity become available.”

“Great!” The Commander bounces on the heels of her feet. “That’s great. I’ll get your comm off Jim, shall I? The Captain is going to be very pleased to hear you’re interested.”

“I did not—”

“Oh, it’s Dera,” Barry interrupts, raising her hand in a wave. “Onadera! I thought we’d never get the chance!” Before Spock can protest his commitment, the Commander has absconded, leaving Spock and Jim to their own devices.

“She can get excited,” Jim offers awkwardly, one hand gesturing vaguely while the other is tucked in his behind his back. He glances at his raised hand as though surprised to see it, before covering, lifting it to run through his hair. “You, uh.” He peers up at Spock with a grimace. “How are you?”

Spock is suddenly conscious of their location. Stood together, albeit within the bounds of propriety, they nonetheless appear as a fixed point in a crowd where despite the sizable Vulcan population, many bustle. Spock is conscious that his father is nearby; moreso of T’Pring’s recent departure, and the presence of many other witnesses. He secures his own hands behind his back, straightening as he does.

“I must depart,” he says, “my work awaits me.”

He turns to seek out his father to notify him of his departure, but Jim ducks around to come to a stop in front of him, arms wide and low as though approaching a nervous predator. “Now hang on a minute, wait,” he says, tripping over himself in his own haste. “What— I haven’t seen you. You can’t even talk to me now?”

Spock falters. “I do not believe it to be a wise course of action.”

“It’s just conversation,” Jim says, tone hardening. “You still know how to do that, right?”

“Excuse me,” Spock says, turning on his heel to leave immediately. He will contact his father afterwards. It is not necessary to apprise him of Spock’s whereabouts; Spock is perfectly capable of making his own way home this evening.

He makes it two blocks away before he hears Jim panting behind him, clearly having run after him. “Spock!” he calls after him, drawing the attention of various passersby. “Spock! Don’t think I won’t stand here yelling my head off!”

It is true; Jim would think nothing of causing a scene. Spock slows his pace, but does not stop. Jim catches up, audibly dyspneic. He bends over, hands on his knees as he attempts to regulate his breathing. “Damn, you’re fast,” he pants, slowly straightening after a minute has passed. His face is red with exertion. “You’ve got to teach me how you do that.”

Spock frowns. “You have not maintained your exercise regime,” he says.

“No shit,” Jim says, drawing up to walk beside him. “Didn’t see much point in trying to spar by myself. It takes two to tango.”

It is a phrase Jim has utilized before; Spock is still not aware as to its precise meaning. He chooses not to answer.

“Look, Spock, can we just talk a minute?” Jim asks, tone plaintive. “I know I messed up, but you’ve—”

Spock interrupts him, confused. “In what way have you ’messed up’?” The colloquialism, as ever, fits awkwardly between his teeth.

The question brings Jim up short. “In what way— Spock, I know the shuttle was too much.” He looks away. “I know I shouldn’t have pushed. It’s what I do - I get excited and then I can’t help myself.” He runs a hand through his hair again. “I know I made you... uncomfortable.”

Spock is paralyzed by the information. The best thing to do would be not to refute Jim and request that he desist in contacting Spock, but now more than ever he is unable to lie. He cannot allow Jim to suffer for Spock’s error.

“Jim, your anxieties are misplaced,” he says. “The fault is mine.”

The words settle between them like a blanket. Around them ShiKahr hums with life - Spock can hear the children of offworlders shouting in play, and conversation coming and going in bursts as people pass them by. Vees pass at intervals, the low buzz of their engines gradually getting louder until they pass by, the Doppler effect in action. They leave behind an updraft that lifts through Jim’s hair like the breeze across Spock’s mother’s garden. He is frowning, brow furrowed deeply, his lip caught between his teeth as he parses the information.

“Are you telling me I haven’t seen you - even heard from you - in a month because, what, you were embarrassed?”

Spock swallows his reflexive protest; Jim’s summation is not, after all, entirely incorrect.

“Do you know what it’s been like?” Jim asks, incredulous, his voice rising in volume. “Do you?” He ducks, trying to catch Spock’s eye, but Spock remains still, eyes fixed on the ground. “I thought it was—” he stutters, furious. “For what? For— would you _look at me?”_

He takes a step closer, the strength of his ire battering unexpectedly against Spock’s shields. Spock strengthens his resolve but does not move back, knowing that if he does, Jim will only follow. Around them, lives continue apace.

“Spock,” Jim says, dangerously close. " _Spock._ "

But Spock cannot lift his gaze. He clenches his jaw, right hand clamped tight around his left wrist for fear that if he should let go he will act in ways that will shame him. The scent of Jim’s sweat rises, the heavy musk of his body winding up in the space between them. Spock dares not move, dares not breathe. Every cell in his body is alight with awareness of Jim, the solid mass of him, the undeniable heat.

“Spock,” Jim says once more, his voice breaking. He sounds wounded, tired. Were Spock inclined to poetry, he might say a thousand regrets chime in Jim’s voice, but he is Vulcan; such things are beyond him. He understands only what he knows, and he knows that what has come to pass between them must be brought to an end. This is not debatable. Should the treaty be enforced as planned, Jim will be bonded to T’Pring for the rest of his natural life, and should it not, he will leave Vulcan. There is no chance for a future between them. It is not right that Jim should be asked to shoulder this burden; it is not a human practice to exert control over one’s emotions - that is Spock’s responsibility. And if it is required of him that he must bring to bear his control for them both, then so be it. Spock is equal to the task. He must be.

“Desist,” he says, quiet enough that the sound passes solely between the two of them. “You must cease your behavior, Commander.”

“Why?” Jim asks.

“T’Pring—”

“Right,” Jim swallows thickly, as though suddenly remembering where he is. “So this is how it’s going to be? You just disappear?”

“It is for the best,” says Spock.

“For who?” Jim spits, the fire in his eyes stoked by Spock’s calm. He steps forward again and this time Spock cannot resist: he takes a step back. Jim’s gaze cuts as though struck. He licks his lips and nods, retreating from his advance. “Yes, all right. All right.” Spock waits for Jim to speak further; when he doesn’t, he steps neatly to the side to circumnavigate him. He is almost past when Jim shoots out a hand, grabbing his wrist.

It happens slowly then all at once.

One moment Spock is standing in the middle of the street; the next his mind hurtles inwards, thrown forcefully into collision with Jim’s, a bright, burning light that is awash with deep, impassioned yearning. Spock attempts to throw his shields up, but to no avail - the meld is instantaneous. Somewhere he hears a gasp - Jim, he thinks - but he cannot reach it. The pressure in his head grows at pace, building and building and building until— _ah!_ A crescendo, snapped like a band stretched beyond the reach of its tension, blinding and cacophonous, every inch of his awareness buried in the force that is Jim, every breath, every firing synapse, Jim, every sound, scent, taste, all Jim, all pulsating with his inestimable, inarguable presence.

Spock wrenches his hand away, as though burned. When he looks at Jim, he is frozen, palm outstretched but empty, a look of horror across his face. “Spock, I didn’t— I’m sorry, I was aiming for your arm— Spock. Spock!”

Spock straightens his sleeve and walks away, leaving Jim in his wake, shields too fragile to bear even a single backward glance. He returns to the Academy and contacts his father before continuing his day’s work, following the motions by rote. When the time comes, he packs his belongings and leaves, slowly but decisively making the walk home, one foot placed unerringly in front of the other. He cooks for his parents, spends an hour in the garden pruning the bushels, before making his mother tea and then retiring to his rooms. There he opens his personal terminal and opens his files remotely, beginning the slow, arduous process of compiling his notes into what will eventually be an academic paper. He works into the night, then shuts everything down, determined to meditate. It takes some time but with enough discipline he falls into the trance, chasing peace down each level until he is able to gird his mind and shore his defenses once more.

If the skin of his bare wrist is hot to the touch, pulsing as though branded, Spock pays it no heed. He must exert his control. He must.


	19. Chapter 19

Like a low-banked fire glowing in his periphery, Spock can feel the presence of the bond.

Night after night he builds a wall around it, shielding it from the winds of his mind, but also keeping it from view. By the day’s end, the wall is worn through, and he begins the work again.

He tells no one.

  
  


The year approaches its calendar end with solemn, implacable determination. Sarek spends the entirety of his days in ShiKahr, unable to return home even for the evening meal and, in his absence, Spock begins to bring his work home in an effort to ensure his mother does not while away entire weeks at home alone. Theirs is a peaceful co-existence, forged through the habit of many seasons spent weathering his father’s trips off-planet. His mother continues to focus her efforts on her own work, frequently surpassing her limitations in an effort to squeeze every minute of productivity from her better days. Then follow a string of days in which she is slow and muddled, the excess stress on her spine and hips provoking waves of chronic pain that dilute her focus. More than once Spock is forced to intervene, gently engaging in a meld to close off the pain centers in Amanda’s brain. He tries to avoid the practice where he can, the pain a siren of dawning caution, a human-red indication of her physical limits which she would do well to heed. But Spock has noticed in her a mounting air of agitation of late, an acute awareness of the passing of time that lends her actions a nucleus of hysterical impatience, as though she fears her opportunities will diminish sooner rather than later. Spock cannot determine the cause of her anxiety, only that it is present and driving.

Ten days following the commemoration, an invitation from Commander Barry arrives on Spock’s comm. It is formal, but written with such adherence to form that it carries with it an implication of wilful audacity which Spock, despite himself, finds amusing. Regardless, he declines. Unable to subtly inquire after Jim’s attendance, he deems it necessary to avoid the wreckage altogether, though no doubt it would be a sight to see. Spock had been particularly intrigued by the offer to utilize what is left of the ship for his own means, but intrigue alone is not enough to sway him. He must be steadfast, and so he is.

As the weeks pass, Spock concludes his current project at the VSA, submitting his portion of the paper and citing his references as required. It is the culmination of two years’ work, yet Spock is already looking ahead to the next conundrum; the conclusions he and his team have drawn are moderate, even conservative; Spock’s ambitions are more radical. He sets himself to the business of applying for autonomous study. In the event that he successfully argues the value of his proposal, he will be supplied with the resources to mount an independent investigation into his chosen subject. He has been rejected twice before, though the latter instance had led to his inclusion on the dilithium project. With the experience of working with the team under his proverbial belt, Spock believes he is better placed for selection as a project lead, though the whims of the faculty at the VSA remain inconstant, Vulcan though they are. He is aware that his heritage proves a barrier to his vocational advancement and yet it is also true that his work is routinely superlative to that of his peers. It is not the voice of ego that says as much; that he consistently exceeds his colleagues in efficiency, efficacy and application is a matter of recorded fact. The facts notwithstanding, Spock attends to his proposal with all due diligence, unwilling to be open to the possibility of rejection.

  
  


He crosses paths with T’Pring one day as he leaves the VSA.

They acknowledge one another with a nod, but do not exchange words until they have descended the steps and have turned the corner away from curious eyes. Spock allows T’Pring to depart first, following behind at an unassuming pace. They soon venture far enough from the Academy to allow for conversation.

“You are shielding forcefully,” she remarks as they walk abreast, each of them looking ahead at the horizon rather than one another. “Your defenses are built on a foundation of desperation,” she says this last with a moue of distaste, “and so they do not endure.” She looks to him then from the corner of her eye. “Allow me to assist you.”

“The time for assistance is passed,” Spock says. “You have my gratitude for your proposal.”

“I do not offer out of want of gratitude,” says T’Pring. “Your efforts are palpable.”

She means through their _koon’ul_. It has been many years since T’Pring has held such a complaint; the impact must be severe. However it is imperative that T’Pring not be allowed access to his mind lest she discover what Spock has secreted there.

“I must decline,” he says instead. “I will endeavor to shore the foundations of my shields with greater success.”

The answer displeases T’Pring but she concedes. “See that you do.”

They walk together in silence. Here there is less need for circumspection as fewer of their peers are present, and it is known to the families who live in the district that both their family homes are to be found in this direction. Many have witnessed Spock’s journey to and from the city over the years; he is a common feature of their lives, one by which to set the time had they no better instrument by which to do so.

They slow as they approach the turn to T’Pring’s home. She has a request to make of him, one she is uncertain of; her reticence is conspicuous, even through their mutual shielding. It is held, however delicately, in the line of her shoulders. The strain is visible even in Spock’s periphery. They come to a mutual stop on the street corner. Spock looks up the incline that leads to T’Pring’s home, reminded of a similar journey they had made prior to _yonuk mazhiv_. This time Stonn does not await her.

T’Pring looks him in the eye, resolve firmed. “I wish to break the _koon’ul_.”

It was inevitable that she should ask; had she not, the healer may have been requested to break it during the _kal’i’farr_. There is no reason to break the _koon’ul_ ; T’Pring is capable of bonding with Jim regardless. And yet Spock has known since he first received the news that T’Pring was the High Command’s chosen candidate for the political marriage that she would ask this of him.

Had she made the request prior to the season - prior, even, to the commemoration, Spock would have acquiesced without protest. But to break the _koon’ul_ , a healer is required, and Spock’s mind would be left open to scrutiny. It would not take an Adept to confirm the presence of the bond in Spock’s mind - T’Pring alone could do so the moment he lowers his shield.

Spock bows to her, remorse in the long line of his spine. “I must decline,” he says again, “until the appointed time.”

By some means, Spock has managed to surprise T’Pring. It is not his habit to deny her, despite his willingness to contest her more acerbic demands. Theirs is a _koon’ul_ of halves: half-commitments and half-connections, shielded on all sides. Spock has asked as much of T’Pring as she has of him in their time, neither of them committing to the inevitability of their bond, though cognizant nonetheless of their promise to one another. That the promise was made by their parents is of no consequence; they are but one of many pairs whose joining is logical on paper and impractical in practice, though they have long since reached an amicable truce, albeit far from the eyes of their peers or reliable witnesses. Spock has long suspected that when the time comes, T’Pring will issue _kal’i’fee_ in a bid for freedom. Now she can do so without harm to Spock. It is logical that she should make this request of him now and, by that same token, illogical that he should deny her.

Spock, however, knows better. It will be more prudent to request a healer to break both his bonds simultaneously, and that close to the _kal’i’farr_ , there would be no need to bring a halt to proceedings. Spock could escape without notice and T’Pring could confirm her bond to Jim, and though some would be the wiser, Spock’s weakness would no longer be a threat to the treaty.

“Explain,” says T’Pring.

“I cannot,” Spock replies.

“Cannot or will not?” she challenges in turn.

“I am unable to do so at present,” Spock says. “I will submit to a healer at the appointed time.”

“What is the significance of the appointed time?” T’Pring asks. “The breaking of a _koon’ul_ may take place at any times without hindrance to either one of us.”

“It is a hindrance to me,” Spock says, “to break the _koon’ul_ before the appointed time.”

Were T’Pring a human, she might frown. As it is, she holds his gaze with candor. “You conceal yourself,” she says.

“As do you,” Spock replies.

They are at an impasse.

The cool wisp of T’Pring’s frustration and disappointment builds rapidly in intensity, breaking sharply against his shields like a fist propelled in anger. “That you deny me is another indication that your mind continues to be insufficiently developed in the practice of logic,” she accuses, “and furthermore an indication of your lack of suitability as a mate.”

Spock does not deign to merit the accusations with even cursory refutation. He knows the insults to his person are designed to wound, but are otherwise arbitrary.

“Be that as it may,” he says, “deny you I must.”

Had their _koon’ul_ formed under different circumstances, now would be the time at which Spock would confide in T’Pring. Though she has been his silent defender for many years, he is aware that, until this juncture, he has proven his utility to her through the honor of his family name, his willingness to accede to her demands, and the constancy of his presence despite her wavering contempt. This is why she has expended effort to ensure his well-being. With the advent of her marriage to Jim, Spock finds himself superfluous. He is under no illusion that she will remain within his acquaintance following the dissolution of the _koon’ul_.

“Very well,” T’Pring bites out cooly. She turns on her heel and begins the ascent to her home, hands tucked into the sleeves of her robe, a patient and resolute pillar of movement. As is ever the case, from the moment they part ways she ceases to acknowledge him, instead making her way determinedly up the street. Spock watches her go until she turns to enter her home, and then he is alone on the corner of the road, left to contemplate once again the nature of his reality.

  
  


It is not within a Vulcan’s nature to feel anxiety, so to name his affliction thus is anathema to Spock, and yet it remains true that his controls are fraying, regardless of the work he puts in to buffer them. He looks inwards, stems the intermittent flow of adrenaline, is watchful of his nutritional and exercise needs. He eats, drinks, meditates and sleeps to a fixed schedule; this has always been his habit, and yet now he can allow for no deviation lest his controls slip and his shielding fail. His every thought is accompanied by the knowledge of his secret.

It is not a hardship to conceal from others; Vulcans do so regularly and with ease in order to maintain their privacy. But the bond asks much of him. He has never known its like. Where he has successfully maintained cursory shields from T’Pring for much of the previous twenty-four years, this bond - a true bond, despite not being confirmed - cries out to be fed. Spock attempts to starve it; he is unsuccessful.

He begins to doubt his resolve. Would it be wiser to approach a healer now, unaccompanied? But no, he would need to bring Jim with him lest the dissolution of the bond have unexpected consequences on him. Spock believes it is more likely that a severance will harm him than Jim, but as human physiology is not an area in which Spock can claim expertise, he cannot guarantee Jim’s safety, and thus it would be imprudent to approach a healer without Jim also in attendance. After passing weeks without speaking to him, Spock would need to devise some method of requesting Jim’s presence, and bearing in mind their previous conversation, Jim is just as likely to bring along a companion, the augmented human who is part of the embassy staff or, worse, the fractious Edosian. No, Spock must wait for the _kal’i’farr_. It is his sole recourse.

He does not sleep.

He does not sleep, and yet he dreams, and in each dream the promise of other fires: the glow of Jim’s skin, once pink, now flushed golden after time spent under the Vulcan sun; the spice of his sweat, the beaded moisture that glistens at his hairline, the back of his neck, the thick, unerringly male musk of the crevices of his person, the backs of his knees, his armpits. Jim has square hands and a square jaw; they haunt Spock. He fears it is his Time; he fears he will succumb. Is this not the _plak tow_ , this violent susurrus of blood that dominates his body, his heart laboring in his side, pulse ringing in his ears, his head, his fingers? Is this the beginning? Can he resist?

“My son,” Sarek says, eyes lifting from his work. Unable as of yet to retire home, he has called Spock to his office to convey more of Amanda’s correspondence. “Your mind is disordered.” Spock stands in front of his desk, hands clasped behind his back. Many times over the course of his life he has been called to stand before his father. Now, as then, he attempts to release the tension in his scapulae. Sarek rises to close the door behind him but does not return to his seat. Instead he stands before Spock, so as to better seek his gaze.

“Have you been in further contact with T’Pring?” He means since the commemoration. Spock is unable to lie.

“The once, Father.”

“You have discussed the _koon’ul_?” he asks.

“We have.”

Sarek’s gaze is penetrating, but Spock holds firm. His father’s curiosity is natural, but Spock has no desire to indulge him in it.

“The matter challenges your equilibrium.” It is not a question.

“Yes,” Spock answers. It is not untrue.

Unbidden, Sarek raises his hand to Spock’s temple; he flinches, avoiding the touch. For a moment his father surveys him, before slowly lowering his hand.

“Forgive me, Father—”

“I would have your thoughts, my son.”

Spock bows his head. “It is a matter of my own, Father. I am confident of my ability to overcome it.”

“It is not logical to deny assistance when it is offered,” Sarek says.

“And yet I must,” Spock replies.

It has been some years since Spock and his father have been confronted with their differences. In the aftermath of his mother’s injury and subsequent recovery, their aims, if not their thoughts, had aligned. And yet Spock remains ever a child of two worlds; his father’s wishes are not always his own.

Eventually, Sarek nods once, his gaze shrewd and appraising. “I make myself available to you should the need arise.” He steps back, turning to his table to retrieve Spock’s mother’s correspondence, holding it out for Spock to accept. When he does, for a moment his father does not withdraw.

“I would see you well, my son,” he says, “not for my own benefit, but for yours. You are distracted.”

Though his father means it as fact rather than censure, Spock feels the weight of his regard.

“I shall endeavor to improve,” says Spock, tugging again on the correspondence. Sarek resists a moment more, then concedes.

“Convey my greetings to your mother,” he says at last, returning to his seat. There is not long before the summit resumes.

“Yes, Father,” Spock says, giving a short bow. He leaves, then, unwilling to engage him further. If his father has discerned his turmoil then his shields are suffering more than he knew. That is twice now that his familial bonds have been tested, once with T’Pring and now with Sarek. Should his forebearers also become aware of his state of mind, Spock will be exposed. It is a matter of grave concern; he finds he needs to meditate, but his father’s summons have disrupted the pattern of his day, and he must return to the laboratory before long. The opportunity to calm his mind will not arise for many hours.

He attempts to engage in walking meditation as he returns to the VSA, allowing the habit of placing one foot regularly before the other to induce a focusing rhythm that permits him to descend to the first level of meditation. It is insufficient to his need and yet remains his sole recourse. Not for the first time, Spock is forced to consider the options available to him. Aside from the matter of the bond, if he is unable to find shelter for his mind when he nears his Time - an affliction he considers must soon be upon him - he will be lost.

The matter stays with him as he ascends the stairs to his department; it shadows his footfalls as he goes and accompanies him to his work station where the seeds of his new research have yet to take root. Conscious of his colleagues, he sits quietly and focuses his attention on his console, opening the relevant files to continue the preparations for the testing he had hoped to accomplish, all the while analyzing the choices available to him. Should he be in the nascent stages of his Time, there is still opportunity to make all due plans. He will have weeks before the _plak tow_ settles upon him, ample time in which to prepare himself and order his affairs.

Spock comes to a decision. In the new calendar year, he will make his way to Gol into order to pursue _kolinahr_.

With this resolution in mind, Spock begins the careful work of dismantling and organizing his work to be taken up by his peers should the interest arise. He begins with his notes on the dilithium experiments, categorizing and filing his hypotheses, the data and his conclusions in such a way that the information can be utilized in conjunction with his further postulations to develop and progress research in this field.

In the remaining time, he will adjourn to his home, able to work in the confines of his rooms without undue disruption. The benefits are two-fold: in the privacy of his home he can allow his vigilance to lapse, content in the knowledge there are no witnesses to his deteriorating condition. Moreover, he can maintain a strict routine, free from distractions or interruptions, and tend to his mother while he is yet able. His decision will be difficult for her, as it was when he first considered it. At the time she could not understand, and though she knew his choice was not a comment on her abilities as a mother, she could not come to terms with Spock’s conclusions. Now, with the breaking of the _koon’ul_ close on the horizon, perhaps she will see the necessity. Spock resolves to reveal his plans only when necessary to prevent his mother’s distress as far as possible.

Once he has packed to leave for the day, having no intention to return to the VSA before the conclusion of his employment, Spock opens his comm to notify T’Sal of his decision to work from home. There is a message waiting for him from the faculty, an answer to his proposal. He opens the message, then sits back to absorb its contents. His application was denied. All the better, he thinks, considering the circumstances. He messages T’Sal, then shuts down the console before collecting his belongings and heading home.

  
  


Having made his decision, Spock finds the journey home is eased. For many days, the walk to and from ShiKahr has been pointedly marked by a need for composure, Spock utilizing the pace of his ambulations to focus his mind and strengthen his shields. Now, armed with his resolve, he is able to unbend. Though it remains true that matters have not changed from what they were, having made his decision, Spock can begin to move forward with clarity and purpose. Control does not seem outside the locus of his reach.

By the time the house is within view, he looks up as he once did, wondering whether he will see his mother watching as he makes his return from the city. Her shadow does not press upon the glass; it is likely that she is in her parlor, completing her day’s work. No matter - Spock will see her in due course. He will bring her fresh tea and ask about her day, and later they will sup together in view of the Mountains of Gol, the Forge stretching out miles ahead of them, all under the eye of T’Khut, The Watcher, who spins avidly in the night sky.

He walks the short path to the door in quiet contemplation of the kitchen’s contents, wondering whether to make soup for the evening meal or something heartier now that the weather has cooled. He raises his hand to palm the lock, but before he is able, the door slides open, revealing someone on the other side awaiting his return.

“Spock,” Jim says, standing in the doorway of Spock’s family home. “I can explain.”


	20. Chapter 20

Things move more quickly than Jim had anticipated.

For the longest time the only news coming out of the summit was bad, and Nori was convinced they’d end up shipping out without reaching a resolution. The Day of Mourning had backfired spectacularly - unsurprisingly the Vulcan contingent hadn’t taken all that well to being told how to manage their grief and the Federation had looked Machiavellian trying to use the commemoration to political advantage. Vulcans, Jim knows from Spock, have near-eidetic memories; they weren’t likely to forget who’d turned up to lend a hand. The idea that they needed reminding was patronizing.

Following his run-in with Spock, Jim had made his way back to his digs and locked himself inside for the rest of the day, the echo of Spock’s unshielded depths still reverberating in his mind. He’d just wanted Spock to stop for a second; he was aiming for his arm, but Spock had been too fast, and Jim’s grip had slipped, fixing on Spock’s bare wrist instead. For an instant it was like he was back in the VSA facing-off against T’Pring for the first time - until it wasn’t like that at all, Spock’s mind a familiar if not surprisingly insistent torrent that burned as it swept through Jim’s mind. For a moment he could see every part of Spock: every joy, every sorrow, every desire held carefully at bay and then there was an all-encompassing release of pressure, so fast that it felt like a hard slap ringing his head like a bell. The look on Spock’s face had been one of sheer horror.

Jim can’t believe he’d made the same mistake twice.

He understands now some of what Spock’s protests were about. He can see that there’s something at work that the two of them need to put to bed. It had taken a long night of sitting in the dark trying to work out what to do next but he’d made the same decision that Spock had tried to force on him to begin with: it was time to let go of whatever they’d started to brew between them. Jim was on Vulcan to secure a treaty by way of marriage. That marriage would be to T’Pring. There’s no room for whatever Jim thinks he’s found in Spock, so might as well let sleeping dogs lie. Enough is enough.

Plus his head’s been aching ever since the commemoration and no amount of painkillers seem to be making a dent.

So he starts the work of straightening himself out. Fixes his routine, fixes his diet, ensures he makes time to exercise every day, and says yes when the others invite him out for dinner, for drinks, whatever’s on the agenda. He comms Barry, too, and gets himself assigned to the salvage operation every few days, the work punishing and laborious, but for all that soothing as well. The salvage crew was mostly made up of offworlders, but Barry had recruited a few ensigns too, and it was comforting to be held in the inflexible rigidity of Starfleet’s uniformity, knowing his purpose and place and being comfortable with both for the first time since he’d come to Vulcan.

That’s where he is, in the bowels of the ship that these days is looking more like scaffolding than something anyone had ever flown up into the blue, when Aberforth comes to find him. That in itself is enough to trigger alarm bells; Jim’s barely seen him since the recess ended as he and Marchese and Shras have been stuck in negotiations almost every single day. It’s strange to see him in the light of day after weeks of passing glances after dusk, or the occasional blue-lined holo to Toddan in the middle of the afternoon. Toddan’s with him, steering the vee with questionable skill - there’s a reason Nori usually drives - and Jim watches from the window as Aberforth clambers out, not entirely prepared for the drop to the ground. He can’t hear him from inside the ship but he sees him march up to Barry who points inside, probably reporting on Jim’s status, while behind him Nori pushes Toddan out the vee to fix the brake before scrambling after them both to catch up. Sure enough, a minute later Jim’s comm goes off.

“Commander Kirk, report to entry.”

“Yes, sir.”

He climbs out of the observation deck - the room was upended in the crash and they hadn’t managed to fix the anti-grav so Jim had been lowered in by harness - back into hall where the gravity tips him gently back to the floor so he can walk his own way out, handing off his gear to the ensign whose primary function seems to be as some sort of prelude to quartermaster.

Emerging into the light, he has to squint before he can see properly, and he hears Aberforth before he swims into view. Jim’s ever-present headache pulses dangerously.

“Kirk, my boy! Get your gladrags - you’re getting hitched!”

Jim nearly stumbles down the exit ramp, fumbling for the rail before his hand lands on someone’s outstretched arm. It’s Nori, looking up at him half in shock, half in quiet happiness.

“The talks are over,” she explains quietly, helping Jim down before he trips and lands on his face. “They’re going to sign.”

The news doesn’t quite get through; Jim’s still dazed when he’s finally square in front of Aberforth who takes him by the arms and shakes him. “I told you we’d manage it,” he says, almost spitting with joy. “Got them over the line, just like I said!”

Jim’s getting married. Jim’s _getting married_ , holy shit.

  
  


It’s late by the time he makes it back to his digs, having been pulled off the salvage and brought back to ShiKahr by Aberforth’s booming demand. Barry had let him go with a smile, promising to join him later, and then he’d been whisked off, back to celebrate with the rest of the delegation. For a planet where none of the inhabitants can get drunk, there sure is a lot of alcohol to be found. Ankhor slaps him on the back when they see him and pushes a glass into his hand, and the next thing he knows, five hours of celebrations and circular congratulations have gone by and Jim is thoroughly soused.

He staggers back to his digs just before midnight, and he’s scrabbling through his personal effects looking for his anti-nausea hypos when, as though summoned by Jim’s inebriation, Bones calls. When the holo starts up, Jim has a moment to wonder at how fast gossip travels in the fleet, before he realizes that can’t be why Bones is calling. There’s still some i’s to be crossed and t’s to be dotted before they’re allowed to announce the news. No, Bones is calling because he can’t tell the time, and he thinks if he’s up everyone else should be too.

“You look damn awful,” he says when he sees Jim. “The hell’s the matter?”

“Celebratin’,” Jim says, lowering himself to the floor. The bed’s too far away and Jim’s not sure he could get there without turning on a light and no way is he about to make that happen. “S’a done deal,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “Cin cin.”

Bones’ eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Mazel tov,” he deadpans. “You ready for this?”

“Have to be, don’t I?” Jim asks. “It’s happening either way.”

Even from across light years, Bones’ skepticism is a sharp, probing thing, but for once he keeps his thoughts to himself, maybe because Jim looks pitiful enough as it is. “Guess word’ll spread soon enough,” he says, bouncing on his toes in that way he has. Jim feels a sharp pang of homesickness all of a sudden. This whole thing’s a mess.

He rubs a hand across his face, irritated with himself. “You good?”

“Hardly,” Bones snorts. “Was calling about that neurotoxin you sent me.”

A lot’s happened since Christmas, so it takes Jim a minute to catch up. When he does, he straightens - or, well, as much as he can laid out on the floor. Bones has been keeping him updated with tidbits here and there but eventually he’d had to send the whole dataset back to Earth for analysis and then the Farragut had gone out of comms range and they hadn’t spoken about it or anything else for a while.

“Anything interesting?” Jim asks, aiming for casual and probably missing.

“Bits and pieces,” Bones says, picking up a PADD. “You ready to tell me what this is about?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“I told you,” Jim says, “a friend of mine got dosed and it messed with a surgery she needed.”

“Right,” Bones hums. “A spinal surgery, wasn’t it?”

Jim shrugs. “That’s what I said.”

“That’s horse manure,” Bones snaps, “and you know it. No one in their right mind is handing this thing out any time there’s a nervous system involved, and I’ll eat my hat if this is supposed to be some sort of regenerative cure. It’s a damn poison!”

Unable to meet his friend’s impassioned gaze, Jim picks at the carpet. “Any idea what kind?”

“What—” Bones cuts himself off. “My god, you knew. I’ve been pushing this one from one end of the universe to the other trying to find even a scrap of information and all this time, you already knew? The hell are you wasting my time for? You think I’ve got time to be digging into things you’ve already worked out for yourself? I’ve got a ship full of idiots to take care of, not to mention worrying about your sorry ass out there with all those walking, talking computers—”

“Yes!” Jim yells, interrupting before Bones gathers any more momentum and he can’t silence him for love nor money. “Yes, I knew it was a poison. Whatever it is, it renders nerve regen basically impossible, but I don’t know anything else, all right?” He runs a hand through his hair. “I thought maybe if you could find something on it, or one of your med school buddies knew what it was, maybe we could reverse the effects.”

Bones is still fuming, but he softens a little. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into over there?”

Jim shakes his head sadly. “It happened before I got here, but if there’s a chance I can help, I’m going to take it.” He sits up, drawing his knees under his chin and looks up at his old friend. “What did you find?”

Bones sighs. “Don’t know why I put up with you,” he mutters under his breath, hands moving over the PADD to bring up the relevant information. “It’s some pretty nasty stuff. The base is definitely a modification of a Romulan root poison that’s used to target the nerve endings to slowly enact decay. The synthetics look like they’re there to accelerate the process by bonding the nerve endings together and basically rendering them useless.”

He looks up. “Fifteen, maybe sixteen years ago, this one would’ve been a no-hoper. The toxin goes straight for the nerves and once they burn through, that’s it. Regen’s impossible. But—” he adds, “the synth markers add an interesting dimension to the whole thing. If you can trigger the toxin to unbond with the synthetic element, it becomes unstable and then, over time, the toxin will dissipate. It’s just a chemical chain; it doesn’t self-sustain the way a virus would. And because there’s no physical damage with the modified strain, all it does is neuter the nerves. Remove the neuter, the nerves should rejuvenate by themselves.” He smacks his lips. “I don’t know, Jim, it’s all early stages. Not a lot to go on, and no one I spoke to had ever seen anything like it.”

Jim mulls over the new information, brain sluggish under the effects of the synthehol. “What about the spinal impact?”

“If the nerve endings can be fixed you’ve got better options for replacing the whole tract,” Bones says, “but it’s a tricky job, and not without risks.” He looks back at the data in his hands. “Best I can tell, if you can dissolve the toxin, you could improve quality of life.” He grimaces. “It’ll hurt like hell while the nerves regrow, but afterwards, the pathways should be fine.” He watches Jim carefully, his skin pale blue in the light from the holo. “Are you ever going to tell me what this is about? Really, I mean? Who is this girl?”

Jim rubs his face again, the day’s events catching up with him. “She’s a woman,” he says, “and she’s been good to me.”

“For crying out loud, Jim, you’re about to get married!” Bones snaps. “Now is not the time to be messing around with other women.”

“It’s not like that,” Jim yells, half-laughing, half-miserable, “she’s someone’s mother—”

“That doesn’t mean she’s dead, Jim.”

“Would you listen to me?” Jim says, trying to get through to him. “She’s the mother of a friend of mine, and she helped me with my Golic and she’s good people, Bones. I can’t go into the details but she was in an accident maybe twenty years ago, and she can’t walk, and she’s in pain all the damn time.” He throws his hands up in frustration. “I just want to help!”

Bones are quiet for a moment. “Are you— Jim. Do you mean Amanda Grayson?”

“How did you—?”

His friend pins him with a look. “Who else is going to have the patience to bring your Golic up to scratch?” He softens then, suddenly tentative. "’Helped’, past tense?” he asks. “You’re not in touch with her any more?”

Jim’s got to hand it to Bones; he doesn’t miss a thing. Anyone else would have glossed over that, chalked it up to manner of speech. Anyone except maybe Spock, and Jim’s not thinking about him right now..

“S’a long story,” he says. He fights himself for a moment before giving in to the inevitable, burying his face in his hands. He’s a long way from anything he could call home and even though there’s a party going on next door, Jim’s alone. “Bones,” he says, voice breaking, “I messed up real bad.”

“Aw, hell, kid.” Bones disappears for a moment before coming back into view, uniform off and a bottle of whiskey in hand. He sits down too so he can face Jim directly. He must be in his quarters and not the CMO’s office. “All right, then. Start from the beginning. What have you done now?”

  
  


Explaining the whole clusterfuck to Bones hadn’t been easy but it beat out conversing with Spock for a good time. Jim had barely had the chance to explain himself before Spock had marched further into the house and away from him, leaving Jim to wander about downstairs alone, hoping to keep out of everyone’s way. He doesn’t know whether he’s projecting, but Spock hadn’t looked too good, and Jim wonders briefly whether he’s suffering as much as Jim. He’s not sure which answer he’d prefer.

After the news broke, the last thing he’d been expecting was a summons from Amanda of all people, but she’d sent him word the old-fashioned way, ink to page, and despite what had happened the last time he’d absconded from ShiKahr, he’d made up his mind to go. Aberforth hadn’t exactly been pleased, but with only a few weeks to go before the treaty is signed, he was hardly going to challenge an invitation from the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth’s wife, especially not when that wife is none other than the esteemed Amanda Grayson.

He thinks over Amanda’s kindness as he heads for her garden, unwilling to go up to see her while she reunites with Sarek who hasn’t been home in some time, and with whom Jim had caught a ride - and hadn’t that been a whole thing. He fingers the letter in his pocket, smiling despite himself at the memory of its contents.

_It is the Vulcan tradition for maternal relatives to host the bride or groom before the wedding, a pre-Reform practice that is still maintained to this day, although the circumstances of most kal’i’farr differ greatly from your own. It would make me so happy if you were to allow me to perform this role for you and agree to stay with us in the lead up to the big day. I think it would be good for you to get out of the city and away from all that politicking for a while as well, don’t you?_

So here he is, back in the S’chn T’gai family home. Not the best idea he’s ever had, but he’s suffering a deficit of them right now, and the thought of being able to wait out the intervening time, away from the wedding planners and the event coordinators, with someone who just wants him to be happy had proven too much to resist. It’s a big house, Jim thinks. He can hide away from Spock.

  
  


Avoiding Spock ends up being even easier than Jim had thought since Spock seems to be actively avoiding him. Spock has breakfast early and takes his mother her tea before retiring to his rooms where he works all day. Jim, meanwhile, is on Amanda’s schedule now, waking once the sun is up and joining her in the day parlor once he’s dressed for the day. He doesn’t join her or Spock for meals, not wanting to disrupt their time together, waiting instead until he knows Spock is back in his room before venturing to the kitchen where, invariably, Spock will have left something out for him - fruit or grains during the day, and heartier fare in the evenings. Jim wishes he could do something to help, but the one time he’d come to the kitchen to offer his services Spock had turned on his foot and left the room.

The rest of the time he hides in the library making his way through the books he can read, and occasionally trying his hand at some that are in Golic. The calligraphy does little to help the constant pressure behind his eyes, but his head’s been aching for so long now that he mostly tunes it out. A couple of times he’d tried meditating but that had only amplified the problem and he’d had to go hide under his covers for the afternoon. He wishes he could ask Spock to do his magic but even Jim can tell when he’d be pushing his luck. He keeps the lights low in the library and uses a page lamp to read by, and in that way he starts to make a dent in Amanda’s shelves.

Most afternoons, after lunch, he makes his way slowly up the stairs, quiet enough to not be disruptive but loud enough to warn anyone around of his location and heading. He pauses on the first floor - Spock’s door, as ever, is closed - then shakes himself, following the banister around to the second set of stairs.

In the day parlor, Amanda is seated at her desk, chin on her fist, lost in thought.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Jim says, softly so as not to startle her.

It’s a lost effort. Amanda jumps on hearing his voice, her gasp turning into a low cry of pain as she jostles something or other in her back. Her chair jerks forward into the desk causing a number of pages on the edge to fly off to the ground.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Jim says, rushing over to help with the things Amanda can’t reach. “I was trying to make noise, I swear.”

“You’re not to blame, Commander,” she says, wincing even as the first sharp burst of pain ebbs. “I was off with the faeries.”

“Faeries?”

“Old Terran phrase,” Amanda says with a rueful smile, “meaning I was deep in thought.”

She watches as Jim collects up the flyaway sheets, gathering them together to lay on her desk. The letterheads catch his eye. “These are from Babel,” he says. “You got in?”

“Ah, yes,” Amanda says diffidently. “A token invitation no doubt.”

“Doesn’t look token to me,” Jim says. There are three, maybe four letters in total. The topmost one seems to be a reminder. Jim realizes he’s invading Amanda’s privacy and takes a step back. “Uh, sorry. You’d think I was still a kid.”

“It’s all right,” Amanda smiles again, this time more genuine. She wheels herself out and indicates that Jim should take his preferred armchair. “Difficult to miss that insignia.”

“I’ve heard it’s amazing,” Jim says, thinking of all the xenolinguistics grads at Starfleet who would have killed to attend, let alone be invited to speak. He watches as Amanda fiddles with the lock on her wheels, diligent in making sure they’re engaged. He has the distinct impression she’s stalling.

“It is,” she says softly. “I’ve been before, a couple of times actually. Before I was married.” She smiles in remembrance. “Never as a speaker, of course, but the Universal Translator was a big project,” she says. “It garnered a lot of interest.”

“You didn’t speak?” Jim asks.

“No,” says Amanda, “I left that to the faculty head.” Something about her tone of voice leaves the faint impression that it hadn’t been her decision.

“Well,” Jim says, “now’s your chance.”

“Indeed.” She’s reticent, that much is apparent, and Jim’s not that surprised. The last time she’d been at the Conference she’d had the use of her legs and hadn’t lived the majority of her life on the soil of a foreign power. The circumstances of Amanda’s departure from Earth no doubt cut her off from the people she knew - not just her family but her friends and colleagues, peers in her field, and even competitors.

“Amanda,” he says cautiously, “do you want to go to the Conference?”

Jim watches in horror as her face falls, eyes suddenly damp. He freezes, unsure what to do, but she waves him off before he can get to his feet and maybe call someone for help. “No, no, I’m all right.” He’s relieved: his only options were Spock and Sarek, and really, how much help would a Vulcan have been anyway?

Amanda takes a deep breath, settling. “There’s been a lot of that lately,” she says apologetically. “I think I’m beyond my depth.” He looks back at her desk where the invitations and reminders are now neatly piled where Jim had gathered them together. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been outside the grounds of this house,” she says at last. “I’m not sure I’d know what to do with myself.”

She looks at Jim with a small smile, brittle and lovely in all her quiet kindness. “Fear is a terrible thing,” she says. “I don’t regret having my emotions; they’ve shaped me and brought me untold experiences. But in this I think my husband may be right.” She pats her cheeks, wiping away the excess moisture from her eyes. “It isn’t that Vulcans don’t have emotions, of course; they do, and they feel them so deeply it’s a danger to them.” She pauses to swallow; Jim rises to get her glass of water from her side table. “Thank you,” she says when he hands it over, taking a deep drink.

“It’s hard to understand, I think, when we rely on our gut feelings to make almost every kind of decision.” Her gaze is distant, lost in a memory from before Spock and Jim were even born. “They have to be so careful with themselves, unrelentingly so. It’s difficult not to think them unfeeling sometimes. But,” she adds, smiling at Jim, “they use logic as a steer. Their evaluations, their decisions, all of these are founded in objective fact. Vulcans are, to a one, fair in their dealings. They meditate to examine their emotions and then release them.” She looks at her hands, folded in her lap. “I often wonder whether it wouldn’t be better to release my fear, but I’ve lived with it for so long, I think I’d be cold without it.”

“A little fear can get you a long way,” Jim says, “it’s kept me alive, and I’ll bet it kept you sharp when it counted.” He thinks about the skirmish with the Klingons, how the wall had blown out beside him, knocking him out. It had been fear that had got him up the Jefferies tube as fast as he had, and he’d been close enough to it when the blast occurred that he’d been sheltered from most of the impact. Jim’s got a lot of time for fear. It’s healthy.

He ducks to catch Amanda’s eye. “You can have an escort from here all the way to the conference and back. Starfleet handles all the pick-ups and drop-offs, and the Constitution-class cruisers are some of the most heavily-fortified ships in the fleet.” He watches as Amanda begins to lose tension in her frame, his words proving a balm to some of her anxieties. “The treaty will be signed in a few weeks. After that, Sarek’s free to join you too, isn’t he? You wouldn’t be alone.” Not like when the vee failed her and she spun out across the road. Jim thinks a lot about what that experience must have been like, terrifying and confusing and painful in equal measure. That Amanda’s still here is a testament to her medical practitioners; that she’s been able to continue her work well enough to be invited to Babel is a testament to her spirit. Indomitable, Jim thinks, testing the word on his tongue; that’s what she is.

“I worry,” she confesses, “about, oh, all manner of things, most of them reasonable or manageable. But I get tired,” she says, “you know I do, and the pain makes it hard to think or even speak sometimes. I’ve been pushing myself lately, trying to stretch my limits beyond what they are. I’d thought, maybe, that if I pushed them, the way you do a muscle, maybe I’d buy myself more scope.” She grimaces. “Mostly I just made things worse. Spock’s up here twice a day sometimes, easing the worst of it away.”

Jim had been hesitant to bring up Bones, partly because when he’d first approached him he didn’t want to raise anyone’s hopes and partly because he’d done it without asking Amanda’s permission. But hearing her speak, he decides the time has come to come clean. “What if I told you that there was maybe a way we could eventually alleviate some of what you go through every day?”

“I know you mean well,” Amanda says, “but there are reasons why I don’t use more automated means—”

“No, no, I know,” Jim says, holding his hands up. “I’m not talking about mobility aids. I’m talking about—” He breaks off, not sure how to proceed. “The Deputy CMO on the Farragut is a good friend of mine. He calls himself an old country doctor, but he’s brilliant. He’s saved so many lives just by being his patients’ voices, even when it’s not what they would say themselves.” He gives a wry smile. “You’d like him, I think. He’s a character.” Jim lets the smile drop from his face as he turns serious again. “I sent him information about the neurotoxin they found in your blood—” He holds up his hand to reassure her, “I didn’t mention you or the specifics, just the toxin. It’s not quite on public record, but it’s accessible and, well, I accessed it.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” says Amanda, frowning.

“Bones - that’s my friend - he says that the toxin that was introduced to your body was modified... somehow.” Jim shakes his head, “I don’t entirely understand the specifics. From what Bones says the modifications made the toxin act more quickly, but also give a way for someone to potentially undo the damage.”

He gives Amanda a moment to digest the information. She sits quietly, hands her lap, playing with her cuticles. Her brow is furrowed as she tries to parse what Jim has told her. Jim waits.

“Most of my injuries,” she says, so softly Jim has to strain to hear, “are from the spinal impact.” She looks up. “There’s not a lot to be done about that.”

“No,” Jim agrees, “not a lot. I don’t think we’re talking about getting you on your feet any time soon, but I think, whatever the remedy or the antidote or antitoxin is, it means you could undergo nerve regen that you couldn’t do before.” He shrugs helplessly, a well of anxiety pooling in his stomach. He lives in the halfway point between guilt over overstepping and fear that Amanda will be upset, or even angry. “I think - and it’s not definite, absolutely it isn’t - but I think it could ease the pain. Not entirely, but enough that Spock’s tea could do a lot of the heavy lifting.”

He sits back in the chair. “If you want, I could put you in touch with Bones. But,” he adds, “if what you’re really worried about is not cutting the mustard—” Amanda gives a small laugh at his turn of phrase “—then consider this: you traveled halfway across the known universe to make your life here among a people that were alien to you at the time and showed no sign of welcoming you in the way you’d expect from humans.” He shrugs again, this time more broadly. “What could you face at the conference that could ever be more scary than that?”

He leaves Amanda shortly afterwards, deciding they can talk some other time. She needs the time to think more than he needs the company.

  
  


With the wedding only a few weeks away, Jim gets permission from Sarek and Amanda to allow Nori to travel to the house to discuss Jim’s part in the proceedings. Aberforth wants free access for all of his team but it seems like Toddan may have already gotten on the wrong side of Sarek because the Ambassador is steadfast in his restrictions: he will allow entry to his home from only one of the Federation’s delegation, at Jim’s discretion, and for a period of no more than two hours a day. Before Aberforth can intervene, Jim agrees to Sarek’s terms and picks Nori as the least-offensive person he could bring into the house. Nori’s Golic is fairly good, she’s human, and most importantly she’s not Toddan. She arrives every morning an hour after breakfast and sits in the foyer going over the latest developments with Jim. Jim had brought chairs out for them both the first time she’d come in, and they’d sat huddled together, PADDs on their laps. That evening, on his way up to sleep, he noticed a table had been installed. He still doesn’t know whether it was Sarek or Spock who’d put it there, but he thinks he has a fair idea.

There’s not that many things for Jim to worry about, politically speaking. The plan for the treaty signing is still the same - bonding in the morning, treaty signing before midday, secular Terran wedding and celebration at sundown. Jim’s part is to show up and stand where he’s told to, but Nori is careful to explain the chosen ceremonies, particularly the bonding.

“It’s not normally a public thing,” she points out, “they’ve got all kinds of rules about what happens, when, and in front of whom.” She shrugs. “I suppose usually the healer would be present at the _koon’ul_ and then, with both parties having psionic capability, the actual bonding is done by the couple themselves.” She frowns. “We can’t actually find anything on the specifics of that whole business.” She waves her palm in a circular, encompassing gesture. “They’re pretty tight-lipped about it. One of the Vulcan attachés said it won’t apply to you so it was ’illogical’ to keep asking.” She rolls her eyes, her visual implant flicking through lenses as she does. It’s a neat trick, one Jim enjoys seeing.

It’s on one of these mornings that a shadow falls across the desk. Jim and Nori look up, not used to being interrupted.

It’s Spock.

“Commander, Ms Noriad, forgive my interruption.” He turns to Jim. “May I have a moment of your time?”

“Uh,” Jim exchanges a glance with Nori before getting to his feet, chair scraping horribly across the floor. He winces, but recovers quickly. “Yes. Of course, Spock.”

Spock keeps his hands clasped behind his back, and moves a few feet away. Conscious of the range of Nori’s aural implants, he drops his voice to speak. Every line in his body looks like it aches with tension. He ducks to be heard, but also to avoid eye contact, his eyes fixed in the vicinity of his feet. Jim keeps a respectable distance, despite the warring impulse to do otherwise. “Commander, I must thank you for your intervention with my mother.”

“You’re welcome?” Jim’s confused.

“This morning my mother instructed me to contact the Babel Conference on her behalf to formally accept their invitation to attend the conference as a keynote speaker.” He raises his eyes to Jim’s for a moment, before dropping them to the ground again. “I believe this to be the result of your encouragement, as she has not deigned to speak with me on the matter when invited to do so.”

He pauses, looking like he has more to add, then ducks his head closer again. Jim fights to hold in the shiver that threatens to dance down his spine. He wants to reach out and touch Spock, to stroke his thumb across his jaw. He wants to kiss him, so, so badly. He moves his hands behind his back and holds them there, determined not to break this time.

Spock’s next words break Jim’s heart.

“I did not believe there would come a day when my mother made plans to venture to a life outside these four walls.” He pins Jim with a look then, as though when called upon he couldn’t do anything else. “You have my gratitude... Jim.”

Jim’s name sounds like a whole word in Spock’s mouth. He flushes.

“You’re welcome?” It comes out like a question again, regardless of how Jim feels. “I just heard her out.”

“A valuable skill,” Spock says. He nods shortly, then heads for the staircase.

Watching him leave, Jim realizes his headache is gone.


	21. Chapter 21

With seventeen days left to go before the treaty signing, visitors from ShiKahr become commonplace at Spock’s front door. While his father has not lifted the restriction - Noriad remains the only guest allowed to enter the house - plans must be advancing at pace as many people arrive to speak with her on the threshold of the property. No doubt this is a nuisance to the embassy staff, but Spock sees logic in his father’s decision: the house is his mother’s sanctuary; permitting it to be breached must be allowed only under the most crucial of circumstances. Amanda herself seems faintly amused by proceedings, but has yet to ask Noriad to meet her, an absence of courtesy by which Spock concludes his father is correct in strictures.

The ceremonies are to take place in the Great Hall to an assembled audience of dignitaries from all sides including, Spock learns, his foremother T’Pau. News of her attendance had arrived days before, no doubt unpleasant to his mother, but T’Pau had also taken pains to indicate that his forefather Skon would not be joining her. Skon’s return to ShiKahr to celebrate a treaty to which he likely objected would be illogical. While an objective fact is in itself neither good nor bad, Spock is nonetheless relieved. Despite his father’s discipline, Spock is certain the same can be said of him.

Furthermore it seems Jim’s family will not be present, news that was met by Spock’s mother with no small amount of surprise. Jim’s mother is an engineer on a ship that is too far to return in time for the ceremonies, and while Spock believes that Jim’s brother is within traveling distance, for reasons known only to him, his brother has declined to attend. Nevertheless, Jim will not be alone; the Farragut is due to make orbit early on the day of the signing, and Jim has relayed to Spock’s mother that members of the crew will be in attendance, including a figure only referred to as ’Bones’.

The matter of selecting an appropriate location had met with some resistance among both parties. The High Command had wished the bonding to take place on sacred grounds, but the conditions would prove difficult to bear by offworlders, and such a thing was private. The Federation’s delegation had no overt objection to the Great Hall, but there was a recurring complaint at the absence of a formal garden. Spock is uncertain as to its significance despite his mother’s own fondness for her square of cultivated soil. “Flowers have aesthetic value,” his mother had explained when he’d questioned the diplomatic corps’ tangible disappointment, “and more importantly: they’re romantic.”

This had seemed an insufficient answer at the time but presumably is the reason his mother and Jim are currently surveying her garden while Spock is in the kitchen preparing the evening’s meal. He listens as they round the plot, stopping intermittently to inspect some vine or shrub. The soft interplay of their voices is soothing, Jim’s deeper tones a warm accompaniment to his mother’s gentle lilt. Their easy rapport is a source of gratification for Spock even as his controls continue to falter. An unexpected consequence of his recent conversation with Jim was the realization that his symptoms abate when they are in close proximity, and as such he has since begun to lessen his restraint. Now when he works in his rooms, he leaves the door open to hear Jim and Noriad cover their morning’s consultation, and in the evenings he idles close by while Jim eats at the table alone. Spock had ventured to the library the day before in search of a reference he was aware his father had in his possession only to find Jim asleep on the long cushioned seat that had long been his preference. Even from the door Spock could sense the tension in his temples and, unable to see Jim suffer so acutely - and feeling his own cephalgia ease in his presence - had paused before retrieving the necessary tome, chancing a brief press of fingers to Jim’s crown to seek out and alleviate his pain. Jim had shifted as the pressure eased, brow smoothing out as he settled further into rest now that the ache was gone. Spock had not delayed, however much he had wished to.

Now that their paths cross more often, Spock’s controls are diffuse, and he often hears more from Jim than is his due. They meet in the hallway outside their rooms and Spock senses _fatigue-surprise-pleasure-disappointment_ ; Spock encounters Jim in the library and hears _curiosity-understanding-fascination_. As his mother and Jim tour the garden, Spock is awash in their mutual contentment, his mother’s thoughts tinged with gentle amusement while Jim’s, louder and more forceful, flit fleetingly from intrigued to fond to delighted and back again, stopping en route to other transient feelings that Spock is unable to decipher. He bathes in the happy pleasure they take in one another’s company as Jim wheels Amanda between the beds. All is peaceful.

His mother’s present tranquility is especially of note. Since confirming her intention to attend the Babel Conference, her emotions have been turbulent and she oscillates between a vibrant desire to eke productivity from the day, and utter exhaustion, brought on by her exertions, which in turn leads to melancholy and anxiety. One morning the previous week she had refused to rise from her rooms, and, having barred entrance to anyone in the house, proceeded to quietly and politely enumerate the reasons she would be unable to participate in future proceedings. Spock’s father had placidly agreed with his wife, resulting in a palpable spike in her frustrations, and she only emerged an hour later when Jim came to her door with a fresh pot of tea, sympathizing with her in broad terms and soothing her until she was willing to disengage the lock.

Spock bore Jim no ill will for being able to persuade his mother where Spock himself could not, but he wondered at his own inability to aid his mother when aid was called for. Later that same day, bidden to his mother’s room in the middle of the afternoon, Spock had patiently allowed himself to be directed here and there, retrieving luggage and beginning the long process of packing his mother’s things for her trip. She and Sarek are to depart for the conference a week after the wedding, to be escorted there and back by members of Starfleet aboard the USS Yorktown.

It is during this time that Spock intends to depart for Gol, a decision he has yet to discuss with his parents, unwilling to add to his mother’s anxieties nor to detract from Sarek’s responsibilities. Though he confines himself to his rooms for the duration of his work hours, he is diligent in attending his mother at mealtimes, on occasion bringing her tea late into the night so as to provide her with the benefit of his company.

He is aware of Jim’s efforts to maintain a distance, Jim doubtlessly taking his example. And yet it is inevitable, even in a property of this size, that they should pass by one another. Jim often spends his afternoons with Amanda, as he had done previously when he had resided with them for _yonuk mazhiv_ , and so Spock frequently encounters him when he leaves his mother’s parlor after lunch, or returns mid-afternoon to refresh her tea. Another time they almost collide in the kitchen, Jim stepping back, arms outstretched defensively to avoid contact, shuffling left as Spock did the same right, the two of them forced to circle one another in a mockery of human dance. The temptation to reach out in these moments is overwhelming, the low scent of Jim’s ever-present sweat kissing salt into the air around him. Spock can taste him, even in passing. He feels Jim’s presence like a touch; desires and rebuffs it both at once. He wonders whether Jim can see his weakening resolve. He feels thin; he feels transparent, especially under the weight of Jim’s gaze which has a habit of lingering, rough with impeded attention.

  
  


Ten days before the _kal’i’farr_ and Jim’s bonding to T’Pring, and each day holds as many hours as is ever did, and yet Spock, who is unwilling to endorse subjectivity in the matter of linear time, finds the passage of seconds so trying as to experience each one to the sum of its duration. Sleep eludes him; meditation is a struggle; concentration is possible, but only for a limited period until he must occupy himself anew with a different task. He takes to working on several problems at once so that his distraction at least proves productive, but his efficiency is down by 42.7%. Even that is a figure it takes too long for him to calculate. Tasks are easier if they are repetitive - cooking, gardening, steeping tea. Everything is a challenge.

The following night he passes Jim on the stairs, Spock intending to retire for the evening while Jim descends to take the evening meal. The night before Spock had sat across the table from him, listening while Jim and his mother conversed, desiring and fearing Jim’s regard in equal measure. Now, he feels the same frisson of anticipation vibrate through his body as he does every time Jim is less than a meter away, thoughts filled half with hope, half with dread that Jim might reach for him once more. If he does, Spock is not certain he will be able to resist him.

Jim is careful with his hands, fixing them at his side, or clasping them behind his back. Occasionally he will telegraph his movements so as to prevent inadvertent collision. When this happens, Spock is forced to watch his limbs in an effort to detract from his hands.

He does this now, stepping slowly but decisively into Spock’s path, hands at his sides, but a physical barrier nonetheless. Spock is tempted to evade him - the staircase is wide enough - but he fears Jim overcompensating and carelessly forcing contact, and so comes to a stop two steps below him.

“Commander.”

“Are you all right?” Jim asks quietly. “You don’t look so good.” He raises a hand, forestalling Spock’s protest. “I know I’m not supposed to notice, but I do. I notice a lot of things.” Face cast in shadows, his skin nevertheless catches the illumination from below the stairs where Spock has left a lamp burning to light Jim’s way. As a human, Jim’s eyesight is less acute than a Vulcan’s and Spock wishes to prevent him from injury, prone as he is to stumbling around in the dark. “You haven’t been going into ShiKahr,” he says.

It is not a question, but Spock takes it as one regardless. Unwilling to discuss the particulars of his situation, yet equally unwilling to prevaricate, he focuses his answers on the generalities. “I am able to work from home and have chosen to do so.”

“I heard your paper got published,” Jim says; Spock infers Amanda as the source of the news. “I assumed you’d move on to the next stage.”

“My proposal was denied,” Spock says, unbidden. He is unsure as to what compelled him to answer so.

“What? Why?”

“I am uncertain as to the justifications,” Spock says, not having read the entirety of the comms. It had seemed unnecessary at the time, knowing as he did of his intention to vacate his position. His answer earns him a look of surprise from Jim.

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Jim says.

“The matter is as I have stated,” says Spock. “I am unable to alter the facts.”

Jim frowns, descending one step to look him in the eye. Spock freezes, eyes downcast, attempting not to flinch under the scrutiny. He wishes to depart; he wishes to step closer. Warring impulses have become the mainstay of Spock’s days. Jim’s hesitancy is a veil of sorts, fogging Spock’s perception.

Jim leans forward furtively, lowering his voice until it is but a murmur between them.

“Have you been dreaming too?”

Spock closes his eyes briefly. His shielding is far worse than he had determined if Jim bears witness to his nighttime visitations. He thinks briefly of the last dream to plague him - the heavy press of flesh against his own, the heat of it, the unrelenting pressure - and feels himself flush. He fights to curb the reaction, though he is uncertain as to his success and it is this that loosens his muscles enough to move, stepping neatly and widely to the right so as to continue his way up the stairs.

“I need you to talk to me,” Jim bites out. Spock pauses a few steps ahead, turning to see the back of Jim’s head; his fists are balled, knuckles white. “Something’s not right, and I can’t put my finger on it.” He glances over his shoulder plaintively. “I’ve been having headaches, bad ones, as though maybe my head’s going to split open. But then lately they’ll just disappear, bam— just like that.” He turns a little more as he finds his stride, words tumbling out of his mouth as though they’ve been gathered there behind his teeth, waiting for the opportunity to fly.

“I’ve been dreaming, too,” he adds, “things I’ve never seen before but I know are real - things I shouldn’t be able to remember. Conversations with T’Pring that I’ve never had, or a thesis defense for a subject I never studied.” He turns fully then so he can look at Spock properly. “I always know where you are, all the time. Yesterday you were in your room when I went up to see your mom, but you went to the library three times and still couldn’t find what you wanted. How do I know that, Spock? How could I know that?”

“The house is designed to carry sound,” Spock says, “the acoustics could easily carry the sound of footsteps—”

“Bullshit!” Jim snaps, voice echoing up the stairs in ironic confirmation of Spock’s assertions. He climbs up a step to get closer, lowering his voice to spit out, “That’s bullshit, Spock, and you know it.”

“I know no such thing.”

Jim slaps the banister. “Yes, you do.” He quietens again. “You’re just too damn stubborn to admit it.”

Unwilling to engage in directionless discourse, Spock turns to head up the stairs again.

“I know you know I’m in love with you,” Jim says, voice soft and low and sad.

The truth of his words carry, penetrating what is left of Spock’s meagre shields. He falters, heart pounding in his side like a Denobulan drum, but he recovers before he can trip, continuing his firm, steady ascent up the stairs, all too aware of the necessity of his departure. Behind him Jim’s gaze falls on him like a brand.

  
  


The next day, they encounter one another again, this time in the library. Spock has spent the day locked in his room, venturing out only once before dawn to prepare both breakfast and lunch for his mother. All morning he has attempted to make progress with his latest enterprise - a redesign of a standard warp core intended to increase efficiency by approximately 89.76%, a project he uses to direct his focus in the chance it may be of use to someone - but has been distracted by stray thoughts of a poem he had read as an adolescent. He can recall only a fragment, his memory impaired by his affliction, the low-banked heat of his desires making it difficult to concentrate. Finally, after midday, he reaches the limits of his patience and decides he must find the poem in question, if only to sate his curiosity. It is early afternoon; Jim will be with Amanda on the top floor of the house. Spock will be unimpeded.

Jim’s presence in the library is a kind of betrayal.

He’s reclined on the long seat, the one he refers to as a futon, a word almost clumsily incongruous with the item in question. Sockless feet overhang the end, crossed at the ankle, and Jim’s elbow rests on the back, hand in his hair while he reads a book in the other.

The book, naturally, is the very same that Spock has come to locate, bound in aged leather that predates even his forebearers’ arrival to the house. The collection is one of a handful left behind by Skon when he finally left the house for the last time, Sarek’s cold censure still ringing in his ears. Spock’s forefather’s tastes were dry, so he suspects the poetry was inherited. Whatever its provenance, the collection in Jim’s hands is what Spock has come to unearth.

Jim looks up when Spock enters, gaze fixing on Spock’s before returning to his page a moment later. He is uncharacteristically expressionless, eyes moving slowly through the Golic. Spock wonders momentarily whether Jim can decipher the text, the script, if he recalls correctly, being Vulkhansu, one of the ancient forms. And yet it is clear to Spock that Jim can read it, even though it takes him some time, because after a moment he begins to relay the text out loud, translating clearly and precisely into Standard.

    

_[...] as the fruit of the niv’orakh blossoms in heat  
so too do you flower within me,  
burning, burning_

The words are a summons; they stir Spock’s blood. He leaves without the book. Two days later, after breaking his fast, he finds it lying face down on an open page. He lifts it to find the poem he had been searching for, the one Jim had read to him in the half-light of the lamps in low, laden tones. Spock shivers to think of it.

A day later, a sprig from the _niv’orakh_ bush, the vine crimson and worn smooth by the season’s _mazhyon_ which strip dead bark from the branches, the pressure from the blazes forcing the buds to emerge into the air. It smells sweet, its small black buds still intact. The wood is wide and heavy - he must spread his fingers to properly take its weight - its surface waxy in the palm of his hands, and he feels his skin warm where it makes contact. The residue is harmless but itches, triggering vasodilation as though by touching it he has caught the fire it has weathered. Despite himself, Spock keeps the vine on his desk.

Two days pass, and then a pot of tea, the herbs rich with flavor and floral scents. The pot is still hot to the touch; it is freshly brewed. Spock is the only one on this floor of the house.

Another day, and new oils for his _asenoi_. When they burn, they cast out a somnolent aroma, pungent with spice and heat.

If it is a courtship, it is not of any kind Spock has encountered before, each additional gift a signalling of intent that spikes feverish warmth in his palms, his belly. He does not have language enough for the sensation each one evokes, something low and simmering, almost bright and clear with appetite but also dark and dangerously rapacious.

Each token arrives while Spock is occupied in the kitchen before dawn, the lock on his door seemingly inoperative against his intruder. When he returns, the room is empty, only the faint scent of salt licking the air.

He waits.

He chooses the bench in the garden, opting for its open location relative to the confines of his room. He sits with his legs crossed, allowing himself to fall into the first level of meditation as far as such a thing is possible in his current state. He does not have to wait long.

Jim arrives shortly thereafter, clothed in a lightweight tunic that Spock has never seen him wear before, and trousers he has rolled to his knee. Spock notices that his hair, once dark, has been bleached by months under the Vulcan sun, the color now auburn, strands of copper glinting in the dawn light. He stands on the threshold of the kitchen, looking down at where Spock is seated on the bench, unsurprised to see him there.

“You ready to talk yet?” he asks quietly.

“It is illogical to discuss that which we cannot change,” says Spock, equally soft.

“Oh, well, in that case—”

“Jim,” Spock admonishes, “in two days you will bond with T’Pring in a union that will mark the joining of our two peoples for the first time in all our histories. It is not to be impugned.”

Expressions cross Jim’s face too quickly for Spock to ascertain before he straightens, stepping firmly into the garden. Behind him the door slides shut.

“It’s just a contract,” he says. “It’s just words. It doesn’t mean anything.” Despite his words, he sounds uncertain.

“The bond is not mere parchment to be blown away on the wind,” Spock says. “It is fixed; an invulnerable link between your mind and hers. For the purpose of the treaty, it is many things: inviolable, sacrosanct, but not ’just’ a contract.”

It isn’t what Jim wants to hear. He ducks his head scratching the back of his skull.

“Neither of us wants this,” he says after a while. “T’Pring would rather set herself on fire than be bonded to me and I’m only in this for the ship they promised me.” He tucks his hands into his pockets. “Once this is done, I’m leaving, bond or no bond.” He looks at Spock. “You could come with me.”

“You are aware this is not possible,” Spock says, “for many reasons, not least of which is that it will be perceived as a scandal.” He keeps his voice low but firm. “My mother was content to leave Earth to be my father’s wife. You cannot offer me even this.”

“You want a white wedding, Spock?” Jim says unkindly, mind thrumming with anger and disappointment. “Just say the word - I’ll waltz you down the aisle right now if—”

“Desist!” Spock utters sharply. “It is not a matter to be taken lightly.”

Jim laughs humorlessly. “Trust me, Spock, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that.” He sighs noisily, startling some creature in the garden’s undergrowth, causing it to shake the bushels as it escapes out into the Forge. Spock pays it no heed, watching as Jim takes a step back to lean against the wall, arms crossed defensively across his chest.

“So now what?” Jim asks, petulant. “I get married and fly away; you sit here and bleed until you die? No, I know,” he says, anticipating Spock’s objection, “you don’t know why you’d have to bleed. Maybe it’s because I split your lip, you think of that?” He tips his head back to stretch the tendons in his neck, the line of his throat clear in the early morning light. Spock looks away knowing his cheeks are flushed and unable to do anything to salvage them.

Minutes pass in silence.

“I didn’t know this would happen,” Jim says, his tone wistful. “When higher ups called me in to talk about their proposal there wasn’t a lot of room to say no.” He swallows. “No one said so out loud - obviously they insisted, ’the choice is yours, son,’ - but who in their right mind says no to the Admiralty with a hope in hell of getting promoted afterwards?”

He pushes off the wall briefly to uncross and re-cross his ankles before leaning back for leverage again.

“I decided I’d come out here and try to make the best of a bad situation. Maybe not love, that was wishful thinking, but a friend at least.” He laughs again, a hollow puff of air that’s derisory in nature. “I’m good at making friends.” He smiles self-deprecatingly. “No one told me Vulcans don’t have friends. That was my first mistake.” Jim looks at Spock then, his gaze sharp. “Then there you were, proving me right while proving me wrong in every other way. I didn’t know I’d meet you,” he said. “You weren’t in the plan.”

“Nor did I anticipate you,” Spock says, trying now to be very, very kind. “I find I am grateful to have had the opportunity to make your acquaintance.”

“You quite sure about that?” Jim asks with a wry smile. “Even with all the drama?”

“I could not regret you,” Spock says. “Vulcans do not feel regret.”

Jim laughs, sudden and unexpected, the sound bright and sincere. Spock watches in fascination as his entire face mobilises, eyes squeezed shut as though in pain. His amusement is _wry-fond-sad_ , contradictory in the way of most human emotions. This Spock can understand: he too is a coalition of contradictions.

Jim scrubs a hand across his face, straightening as he goes. “For what it’s worth, I’m not sorry,” he says, kicking at the dust beneath his feet. “I wouldn’t have made it those first couple of weeks if you hadn’t been there to stop me from falling flat on my face. I had no idea what I was doing. I still don’t.” He smiles ruefully. “I meant what I said, Spock. I do love you.”

“Yes,” Spock says, unable to say more. Jim’s courage and candor warrants the same in return, but long years of practice prevent him from doing so.

Jim closes his eyes, shaking his head in mild skepticism, before opening them again, the weight of his gaze like a hand on Spock’s face, warm and firm; implacable. He surveys Spock quietly, an act Spock patiently allows, sensing in Jim the necessity for Spock’s indulgence. He wonders briefly whether T’Pring would allow such a thing; whether she would permit Jim to see her as she truly is - whether Jim would want to look. Spock does not know.

Pushing himself off the wall again, Jim startles Spock, his unannounced motion convulsive with urgency. His demeanor is frantic, eyes wide as he lowers himself, crouching before Spock, forearms slung across his thighs. He holds Spock’s gaze with an air of defiance, as though challenging Spock to look away. He cannot, he finds. He does not want to.

Jim raises a hand, slowly extending two fingers in a display that makes Spock falter.

“Just tell me you feel it too,” Jim says, voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me I’m not alone in this thing. It doesn’t have to go anywhere - I’m not asking for anything - but just tell me I’m not crazy, Spock, please.”

The sun is high enough now that its rays brush the back of Spock’s neck. In the distance he can hear a passing transport; it turns before it reaches the road that leads to the house. His mother owns a mechanical timepiece, the various parts of which chime faintly as the seconds pass. Somewhere in the east a Lara bird sings, sweet and mournful in the light of dawn. All the while, Jim watches him, hand held up between them.

For a moment, the cacophonous rage of sounds that have taken up residence in Spock’s mind are silenced. Seconds pass. Jim does not move.

Spock reaches out to brush his fingertips against Jim’s own. The touch sparks unexpectedly; both he and Jim shiver at the sensation as it blows outward like seismic waves, trailing light through every cell in their bodies like clear air after the rains. Jim swallows, his eyes closed. He is weary, mind flashing _relief-anguish-grief_.

“To each joy its celebration,” Spock recites after Surak, “to each sorrow, its observance. That is only logical.” He lowers his hand, tamping down on his sense of loss at the loss of contact. “You are not mentally unsound, Jim,” he says. Jim’s eyes open, damp and bright. The tears pool but do not drop. “Nevertheless, what exists between us must here and now come to its natural end.”

Jim rises to his feet before turning and entering the house. He does not look behind.


	22. Chapter 22

Jim spends the two days before his wedding trying to get over his broken heart.

Time passes in a tender haze, and he feels anesthetized, every thought and movement seeming to take twice the usual amount of effort. After leaving Spock in the gardens, he’d gone back to bed for a couple of hours, pressing on the ache in his skull like a bruise he couldn’t leave alone, and only waking when his comm chirped to tell him Nori had arrived. He’d woken up sluggish and irritable, but had tried hard to keep it together for Nori, who’d had the unenviable task of dealing with him that morning - and without coffee to boot. If she’d noticed Jim was out of sorts, she was good enough not to say anything about it, though he’d caught her shooting worried glances at him whenever she’d thought he wasn’t looking.

There was a moment, as Nori was gathering her things to leave, where Jim had desperately wanted to leave with her. He’d have left his gear behind just to get out of that house, and back into ShiKahr, but even he knew it was probably bad form to run out on his hosts two days before his time was up - not to mention what that would imply about Amanda and Sarek. So he’d held his tongue, escorted Nori back to her vee, and stood in the doorway, watching as she’d sped off, ShiKahr’s towers looming in the distance.

He’d spent the rest of the day in the library, unable to face the possibility of bumping into Spock if he went to see Amanda, and not wanting Amanda to see how messed up he was. While browsing the spines for something new to pick up, he’d found the book he’d left with Spock the week before neatly back in its place. Lifting it up, he’d flicked to the verse he hadn’t been able to put down that day when Spock had found him lounging on the couch, feeling his blood go up as he worked his way through what seemed to be an entire collection of erotic poetry. Spock’s timing had been impeccable, stepping into the room as Jim had run his hands over the calligraphy, testing out the syllables in his mouth like fine wine. The look on his face at hearing the verse out loud had been enough to make Jim swell uncomfortably in his shorts, face flushed hot enough to burn. He still doesn’t know what had possessed him to recite the words out loud, but he can acutely recall the ease of it, how the Standard had flown from his mouth like water at the shore, smooth but restive. He had touched the words again, then put the book back, words tucked safely beneath his ribs. He’d gone back to bed a few hours later, not sure he could stomach dinner the way he was feeling just then, ashamed at how he’d avoided Amanda that day.

He’d not seen Spock at all.

  
  


He wakes the day before the wedding still heavy-hearted but determined not to dwell on it. He takes his tri-ox and does fifty sit-ups, heading outside immediately afterwards to run the perimeter for an hour, then comes back in to work through a couple of circuits before grabbing his towel and heading for the fresher. By the time Nori arrives, he’s dressed and waiting in the foyer.

“You look chipper,” she says, eyeing his energy with mild suspicion.

“I’m trying something new,” Jim says. “I’m calling it ’profound denial’. It’s just like denial but it dresses better.”

Nori rolls her eyes, augment ticking rapidly on its rounds. “I hope you’re ready to buckle down,” she warns him, “we’ve got a lot to cover.” She walks him through every stage of the next day’s proceedings, all details now finalized and signed off by whatever committee had been put together specially for the task of making sure Jim doesn’t make an ass of himself in front of the major players in this neck of the galaxy. It turns out he and T’Pring get the dubious honor of witnessing the signing of the treaty, which Jim secretly thinks is exciting. Maybe if he already had his captaincy he wouldn’t be so enthused about putting his name to something that has had very little to do with him, but he’s been coming around to the idea that the bonding is actually very important in the scheme of things, regardless of what he’d said to Spock the day before.

He pushes that thought aside as Nori goes over the details of what he’ll be expected to wear. He’ll be in his dress uniform for the treaty and the Terran ceremony, but the High Command wants him in formal robes for the bonding, and he’s sweating just thinking about what a nuisance that’s going to be. He’s also not entirely sure how to put one on - is he supposed to wear something beneath it, or is it more a highland kilt situation? - but he decides if he messes it up the army of people employed to make him look like he knows what he’s doing will soon sort that out. There’s something in the notes about cosmetics too, but Nori brushes over it with the assurance of someone who knows how to bury the lede. He realizes with a start that he’s not seen or spoken to T’Pring in weeks, not since she’d ambushed him back at his assigned quarters, and he wonders whether she’d been back at all before realizing that no, if she had, Nori would have told him. He doesn’t know whether to be upset or relieved. He settles on a mix of both, making the assumption that she has her own problems to sort out before tomorrow arrives.

Nori leaves early, securing a promise from Jim that he’ll show up on time and clean-shaven, and wearing the robes the right way out if nothing else, before skipping out leaving Jim to wonder how something that looks like burlap can have a right or wrong way out. Jim’s going to miss her when this debacle’s over. She’s been a welcome change from Vulcan stoicism, but also a fun counterpart to the bureaucratic machine of diplomacy that’s been hell-bent on running Jim over. He’s thinking about how strange it will be when he goes back to Starfleet and won’t speak to her every day when he walks into the kitchen to get lunch and finds Spock at the counter, carefully and quietly chopping vegetables, his mother wheeled up against the table. He hadn’t heard them come down and he’s wondering what else he’s missed when Spock turns to look at him.

There’s a moment when neither of them move, and then Spock nods once, a gentle incline of his head, and Jim can’t help himself; he smiles back softly. Something settles in his chest, and he heads in to sit down.

“Oh, Jim,” Amanda exclaims when she sees him. “Spock’s preparing _plomeek_ for dinner. You must have some. It takes all day to make.”

“Is this going to be like _sash-savas_ all over again?” Jim asks, pulling out a chair, and swinging his leg over to sit down. “I don’t think I have time to acquire a new taste.” Amanda taps his wrist in light admonishment while Spock settles a plate in front of her, and one for Jim as well. There’s an assortment of food, a mix of unleavened breads and fruits, and a small cup of broth which must have been leftover from dinner the night before. Suddenly ravenous, Jim grabs his utensils to dig in, looking up when he realizes Amanda and Spock are watching him, Amanda with unconcealed amusement. She smiles when she catches his eye and encourages him to eat. “I know you skipped a calorie or two yesterday,” she says with a knowing look, before turning to her son who is, surprisingly, taking his own seat at the other end of the table. “We must make sure the Commander eats properly this evening,” she says in that slightly professorial way she has sometimes. She smiles at him, askance. “He’s practically wilting away.”

Jim can’t help but think that’s more true of Spock who, in the intervening time, hasn’t improved in color at all. If anything, he looks even paler now, face all planes and angles, not a bit of give on him. The hollows of his cheeks look bruised, as does the skin under his eyes. He’s not sleeping, Jim realizes, maybe not meditating as much as he should either. He must be fairly bad because Amanda mentions it too.

“You’d better eat up as well,” she says, tilting her head to look up at Spock where he’s bent over his bowl. “You’re looking a little wan yourself, dear.” She frowns. “Are you all right? You’re awfully pale.”

“I suffer no illness, Mother,” Spock says, which leaves room for suffering from something else, but Amanda doesn’t mention it. She merely tips a bowl of fruit in his direction, and watches as he carefully lifts out a few of the berries one by one into his bowl, before slowly but methodically making his way through his meal.

After lunch, Jim accompanies Amanda into the garden. She’s been as nervous as he has lately, albeit for different reasons, and Jim feels a pang of fondness for her, thinking what it must be like to count down the days until she gets to leave this place for a while - how exciting that must be, and how frightening. He sits on the bench to talk to her, right in the spot where he’d pressed his fingers to Spock’s the morning before, their touch as solemn as an oath. Spock is, right now, working in the kitchen, head bent over a PADD just the way he did when the two of them worked together back in ShiKahr, Jim seeking out both sun and shade while Spock applied himself tenaciously to the task at hand.

“You know,” he says, as Amanda wheels her way back to where he’s sitting, “you don’t have to come tomorrow. I won’t be offended.”

Amanda cocks a wry eyebrow his way - Jim spares a thought to whether that’s something she’d learned to do since moving to Vulcan. “I think I’m offended,” she says, “if that’s how you feel.”

He holds up his hands placatingly. “I only mean to say that if you get up tomorrow, and it feels like one step too many, you can sit it out.”

“I think I’ve spent enough time sitting, don’t you?” Amanda asks, gesturing at her chair. “Besides, I can’t hide forever.” She smiles sweetly. “Jim. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She straightens then, looking around the garden. “What are you wearing in your lapel?”

“That’s not really how the dress uniform works?” It comes out as a question.

“Nonsense,” Amanda says, wheeling herself around. “How about a _lirka_ vine? You can braid them, and they smell a little like lemongrass.” Jim watches as Amanda sets herself the task of picking the shoots, walking over when she beckons him to show him how to braid them. Overhead the sun is bright, the clay beneath is umber, and, in her lap, Amanda’s hands are quick and lithe. They pass the afternoon that way, wandering around the garden, and tending to the plots. It’s a perfectly lovely day, and when it ends, Jim’s sorry there haven’t been more like it.

  
  


Spock’s looking a little better over dinner, but he picks at his soup, not taking more than maybe three or four mouthfuls before he stands to vacate the table. Sarek has joined them for this last meal and doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, but Jim notes that Amanda watches Spock carefully as he goes about cleaning his dishes.

The _plomeek_ is interesting, thick and pungent but surprisingly flavorful. Jim’s not sure that he’d want to eat it again but he doesn’t dislike it, which is more than can be said for some of the Andorian cuisine he’s had in his time. When the meal is over, Sarek retires to his office, and despite Jim’s assumption to the contrary, Spock sits down again, joining Jim and Amanda while they sit and talk awhile. He doesn’t say much - Jim’s not even sure that he’s listening which even as little as a month ago would have been unheard of - but he stays, and Jim’s pathetically grateful that he didn’t turn in when Sarek had left the room.

Amanda talks a little about her bonding, not the specifics but the experience of it and how she’d felt about it afterwards, not having been forewarned the way Jim and T’Pring have been. “It was as though I had a new shadow,” she said, “someone whose hand moved with mine as I wrote and whose thoughts slipped into the gaps where mine had paused.” She laughs. “I didn’t even know what had happened to begin with. Hadn’t I always known where Sarek was going to be? Hadn’t we always moved in tandem?” Shaking her head, she smiles a small, private smile. “It seemed strange to think that there was a link that hadn’t been there before. I hardly noticed the difference.”

She looks away, lost in her memories, not noticing when Jim looks at Spock to check his reaction. He doesn’t give one, of course, but he’s looking straight at Jim, gaze hot and dark. Jim wonders whether he’d know if there was a link between them, or whether a sudden alignment of natures would be so close to what they’d always been that he’d never know the difference. He has a feeling he’ll always know the corner of the mind he has to give over to T’Pring; he’ll always be conscious of her presence because he’s not sure it will ever feel like she’s meant to be there. _It’s not as straightforward_ , Garrovick had said, _as lying back and thinking of the Federation_. No shit, Jim thinks. Bit late now.

Jim reaches down to hug Amanda when she finally decides to call it a night, her hands firm and comforting on his shoulders as she presses a light, motherly kiss on his cheek. “Sleep well,” she says as Spock gathers her up to carry her back upstairs. Jim’s seen this routine play out enough times to know Spock will be back down in a couple of minutes to take Amanda’s chair up to her rooms, but Jim doesn’t test his luck. He follows them up the stairs, parting ways on the first landing as Spock turns towards the second staircase. He watches them go, Spock’s easy care of his mother a warming sight, while Amanda’s gentle tones carry lightly through the house, a soft, pleasing sound that makes Jim feel less alone. For a moment, he imagines what it would be like if he didn’t have the obligations he had - he could follow behind them, bringing Amanda’s chair so Spock wouldn’t have to make the journey twice, and Amanda would be grateful for his part in things, eventually telling them to stop fussing and shooing them out of her rooms with a knowing smile. He would be careful not to take Spock’s hand but they could come back down the stairs side-by-side, arms brushing as they go, the inevitability of their destination removing the need for haste and letting them linger, talking about their day or what tomorrow will bring. He wouldn’t have to leave Spock on the landing, or even at his door, but could follow him into his rooms, sure of his welcome; could afford to stand there in the circle of his embrace, face tucked close against his neck, and breathe, just breathe for a little while, able to take the quiet for granted.

But Jim does have obligations, impending and inescapable. He heads for his room, determined to go to sleep. He’s got a big day tomorrow after all.

  
  


The pain wakes him before Spock screams.

It’s excruciating, a lance through his skull from temple to nape, and Jim almost throws up, the agony of it is so strong. Somehow he knows it’s not his own - maybe because he can still think through it - and he stumbles out of bed reaching for the keypass to the fresher. He’s never entered Spock’s room this way but desperate times call for desperate measures, and the door lets him in, so he has to think that Spock meant him to use it, meant him to have access to his space in this way.

Spock’s kneeling on the floor, bowed over so tightly he could snap, his head cradled in his hands, fingers tight against his skull. It takes Jim a moment to realize the shout is in his head, a roar of suffering so strong it nearly deafens him. “Spock?” Jim calls out, trying to wake him from whatever stupor he’s in. “It’s just me - I’m coming in, all right? Spock?” He falters when Spock snarls like a wounded animal, still caught up in the miasma of his... nightmare? Injury? Jim can’t see from where he is, even with light from T’Khut reflecting into the room. He crouches down so they’re on a level, and inches forward. Now that Jim knows the pain’s not his own, it’s easier for him to put it aside.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs softly. “You’re all right, Spock.” He holds his hands up defensively as Spock rounds on him, teeth bared, before the haze seems to lift and he squints at Jim, working out his shape, his smell.

“Jim,” he utters through clenched teeth. “You must leave. It is not safe.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Jim says, taking another guarded step forward. “Tell me what’s going on. What’s happening?”

Spock swallows, struggling for breath. “The _koon’ul_ —” he breaks off as another wave of pain breaks itself over his body, his spine arching as though the muscles are cramping, and Jim can’t help it, instinct takes over as Spock shudders helplessly in front of him; he takes Spock’s hand and pulls—

—thrown hands-first into Amanda’s garden looking like it had after the _mazhyon_ had passed over, except that the damage doesn’t look random at all.

Spock is with him too, his knees in the red clay hands digging frantically in the beds as though he’s looking for something he’s lost there. All around him bushels have been torn clean of the ground and upended, roots exposed as though they’re trying to reach for the sky. There’s a sapling in the corner that Jim’s never seen in the garden, the bark as dark as charcoal, and he thinks it might have grown further given half the chance, but it’s rent in two, the clean bisection indicative of something less random than a chance storm. Someone had cut it down deliberately, and while Spock’s undoubtedly a mess right now, Jim knows it wasn’t done by his hand.

On the other side of the garden there’s something else growing, fat and prosperous, as though it’s seen more light than the sapling. He can’t see what it is because there’s a kind of scaffolding around it, unstable but constricting, the tree inside growing with such enthusiasm that it’s broken through in places. It looks younger than the sapling, but healthier, its girth stretching wider than Jim’s arms could envelop. The enclosure seems unnecessarily restrictive and he watches as it refortifies, panels of different materials shoring up, layering in front of him - at first it’s duranium, the plating thick and impenetrable, but each one seems to bleach, as though it can’t hold form, thinning out into steel and tin before flattening into thin beams of wood, something supple like cedar that’s easy to break.

Spock cries out in anguish. Jim spins on his heel away from the strange fortification at the edge of the garden to see Spock’s stricken gaze on him, features so drawn that Jim can’t help but feel a sting of rejection at the knowledge that Spock doesn’t want him there - that Spock is horrified to see him. He’s still kneeling on the ground but with his arms wrapped around his chest, and he tries to rise, feet slipping as though the clay is wet, crashing into the ground over and over again, the red of the soil smearing across his shins. He looks wild. He looks terrified.

There’s something different about this meld than the others Jim’s experienced before. For one he can actually feel Spock’s presence pressing in on him from all sides, the weight of his fear and the depth of the pain he’s going through. Jim thinks he understands: the garden isn’t real, it’s just a metaphor for Spock’s mind. Something’s ripping through the undergrowth, something that wants to stifle Spock, to strangle his will. The upended bushels, the felled tree - that’s damage that was easy enough to inflict, but whatever’s growing on the far side is too powerful, too strong to be taken down without real violent intention. The confined tree must be Spock, Jim thinks, and the boarding is trying to cut him off.

He just needs to break open the enclosure.

Something of his intention must bleed through to Spock who is frantic now, afraid for Jim, he thinks, but unstable; he still can’t get purchase, and the more he struggles, the further back he falls, but Jim can move freely; whoever’s attacking Spock hadn’t expected him. He rushes the barricade, determined to break through. Somewhere behind him he registers Spock’s cry of protest, but before he can process what that can mean, he’s got hold of one of the panels and bracing his foot against the roots, he tests it once, twice, and then pulls— and it disintegrates, the panels nothing more than dust on the wind revealing the wild vines it had been choking.

It’s a _niv’orakh_.

Tall and broad like an oak, the branches gleam under the sun, deep crimson vines that are plump and healthy, smooth with wax, their buds flowering in abundance. He watches as more unfurl, buds emerging across all the branches, each one blossoming like botanical fireworks. It’s beautiful. It’s immense.

Somewhere in the corner of his mind still able to process his surroundings, Jim can sense that Spock wants him to step back, but he feels an affinity for this tree. He recognizes it - not like he’s seen a holo of it somewhere, but like he knows it, and it knows him in return. It’s vital and pulsing, and it’s familiar to him, intimately. Jim’s hands get him into a lot of trouble, especially here on Vulcan, but he can’t see the harm, not when he knows this tree, somehow, like maybe they’ve known one another a long time; like maybe it’s growing in his mind too, amorphous but exigent. It welcomes him, innately warm, innately loving. He puts his palms on the bark—

—and falls out of the meld, his hands on Spock’s face, having half-clambered into his lap, the both of them gasping open-mouthed like they’ve been running for miles across the Forge, some biting predator at their heels. Jim’s forehead is pressed to Spock’s, hair damp with cooling sweat, Spock’s hands gripping tightly at Jim’s elbows as though trying to hold him in place, scared that if he relents Jim will leave or - worse - press closer. His hands are so big, Jim thinks. It’s almost an embrace. Almost.

“We’re bonded,” Jim murmurs, still trying to catch his breath, feeling his own brow crease in confusion. “The _niv’orakh_ \- that was the bond. Our bond.”

  
[The niv’orakh blossoms](https://i.ibb.co/YWpTmTg/unnamed.jpg) by [Em95](station-station.tumblr.com) (click to enlarge)

Spock doesn’t answer but Jim doesn’t need him to. He can’t believe he’d ever found Spock inscrutable: he can read him like a book. There’s weariness there in the line of his brow, but also regret and remorse; his hands speak to desire and restraint in equal measure. His legs, coiled with power, show submission. He’s soft under Jim’s hands, cool to the touch but warm inside, his hearth glowing with low-banked embers, quietly burning. There’s desire there, seeping through, but still held firm at bay, as though even in the face of Jim’s yearning Spock is trying to protect him from his appetites.

For all the doubt and self-recrimination, for all the fear and sorrow and loneliness, the loudest note in the song that makes up Spock’s mind is love.

“You’re such an idiot,” Jim says, feeling Spock flinch under him in protest. “Did you think I was lying?”

He doesn’t let Spock answer, cupping his face with unimaginable tenderness, and kisses him full on the mouth.

Spock’s grip tightens fractionally, an aborted movement that speaks volumes, sending sparks up Jim’s spine as he tries to move closer, to press into Spock, his own limbs impeding his progress. He keeps the kiss closed-mouthed but lush, sucking lightly on Spock’s lower lip and keening when he feels Spock kissing back with the barest pressure. He can feel it now, the weight of the bond in his mind, words inadequate to name the shape of it, the quality. If he runs a hand across it like fingers through a beaded curtain it shimmers, something like electricity shivering through him. He feels its answer in Spock: what in Jim is babbling brook in Spock seems more like storm currents at high sea. Spock shudders, breaking the kiss.

“T’Pring—” he murmurs, his protest made sibilant with gasping breath. “Jim, the treaty—”

“That’s tomorrow,” Jim says, still hungry for touch. “This is now.” He runs a hand through Spock’s hair, brushing his thumb against his temple. He leans, wanting to stay close, Spock’s nose cold against his when he nuzzles in. He’s sweating again - he’s always sweating, but the heat is everywhere now, thick in the space between their bodies, dripping like honey in the sun. Jim takes short, stuttering breaths, rubbing his mouth against Spock’s cheek, his open lips, each one more sigh than kiss as his lust pools in his stomach, a slow, syrupy madness that has him shaking.

He forces himself to stop, closes his eyes as he licks his lips, trying to get himself under control. He sits back, falling out of Spock’s lap and bracing himself on his elbows. It’s not comfortable, one leg bent awkwardly under the other but he doesn’t want to wriggle out now, needing to stay close, and not wanting to kick Spock in the face. What he really wants is to kiss him again, but he knows it’s important to stop - to hear what Spock has to say.

Spock says nothing. In the muted light from T’Khut, he looks pained, like it’s taking him a lot to concentrate. Jim feels his heart constrict in his chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, unable to wait for whatever it is that Spock can’t say. “How could you know about this and not tell me?”

When Spock speaks, his voice is a tremulous, rasping thing that, despite himself, Jim wants to bite.

“You were brought here for the performance of a singular duty,” he says, “to wed T’Pring in the name of peace and diplomacy, a symbol of the partnership between our peoples.” He ducks his head. “To intervene in a mating bond is akin to sacrilege.”

“But we have one,” Jim says, “right? That’s what this is. A bond.” He shakes his head, not understanding. “What makes what we have any less deserving of mention, of— of sanctity?” He can tell the question hadn’t occurred to Spock; some echo of his consideration passes between their bond. Jim wonders how long Spock had been trying and failing to shield the bond which, now unshackled, is wide open, running like a slipstream from Spock’s mind to his. The headaches make more sense now if Spock had been trying to dam the flow between them. Jim can’t quite hear thoughts, so something of Spock’s shields must still be in force, but fleeting emotions and the motion of how Spock thinks are communicated clearly.

Another thing occurs to him. “Wouldn’t the healer have noticed anyway? Wouldn’t T’Pring?”

Something hot and sharp lances through; embarrassment, or shame, Jim can’t tell exactly. They feel the same to Spock, like cause for one makes him jump headfirst into the other. That makes sense, actually, the way Vulcans can be. Jim’s spent enough time with Spock to know he carries a lot of baggage that as a Vulcan he’s not necessarily supposed to have but doesn’t have any way of putting down.

“T’Pring wishes for the _koon’ul_ to be dissolved,” Spock says. “No doubt the healer will perform the task prior to the _kal’i’farr_.” He pauses, debating which version of the truth to offer before his shoulders drop imperceptibly, a shift in body language that Jim recognizes as Spock’s version of a sigh. “I hope to cauterize it then,” he says, “before any have cause to notice.”

There’s something about how Spock says it - quietly resigned, carefully flat - that gives Jim hope. He doesn’t want to dissolve it, whatever he thinks about honor and duty. Some proud, hidden part of Spock had wanted to fight for what his body thinks is his. It’s Spock’s brain that’s doing double time, talking him out of his better nature, the part of him that’s human being forced to bow to rule of law.

Still it’s Spock’s actions that speak louder than his words, and that’s a problem. He means what he’s said: he’d wanted to get through this thing without anyone knowing, even as it was tearing him up - almost literally, Jim thinks, thinking of Amanda’s poor uprooted garden.

The thought is sobering, and Jim pulls his legs out from under him, wincing as his muscles protest at being eased back. He crosses his legs.

“You were never going to tell me,” he says quietly. “You would have let me walk out of here tomorrow and bond with T’Pring without ever knowing how you felt, all because you’re a stubborn—”

“It seemed unkind,” Spock says, cutting him off, “to bring to light that which cannot be sustained. Better to leave you ignorant than to tempt you with that which you cannot receive.”

“Maybe it’s better to have loved and lost,” Jim says, “than never to have loved at all.” If Spock recognizes the words, Jim can’t tell but he doesn’t think it matters anyway; he’s not entirely sure he agrees. He softens, seeing some logic at work, method in Spock’s madness even if Jim doesn’t like the implications.

“Well I know now,” he says, nudging Spock’s knee gently with his toes. He’s wearing snug bed clothes, some kind of soft flannel that nonetheless looks great on him. Jim wishes he’d kissed away his objections instead of trying to talk them out. There’s a reason the Federation told him not to bother with the talks; his job was to stand still and look pretty, and preferably not open his mouth at all. “What next?”

“I do not know,” Spock says, looking him in the eye.

It’s late, Jim thinks, past midnight for sure, but still five or six hours before he has to go anywhere. He’s tired now; he wants to curl up under Spock’s covers with him and pass the time in his arms, but he’s conscious, too, of the clock ticking. They don’t have much time.

“The wedding’s tomorrow,” he says again. “We’re not there yet.” He nudges again, feeling sly. “Can I kiss you?”

“Jim,” Spock cautions. His face is drawn but he doesn’t move away. Jim inches forward, slowly rubbing his foot along the inside seam of Spock’s pants. He can feel the muscles there, firm and tightly corded, the strength of them hidden by Spock’s subdued, unassuming nature. Jim wants to put his hands on him, mess him up some; press on him a little and then a lot and leave some mark that proves Jim had been there, close enough to touch and hold. The bond is a living thing between them, forceful and impossible to ignore, but steady and sure as well, like a hand on the nape of his neck, something that won’t let him fall. The heat between them hasn’t gone anywhere, it’s just quietened, ready for someone to strike a match.

“Tell me you don’t want to,” Jim says. “Tell me and I’ll go.” He tilts his head to look at Spock closely. “I don’t think you can,” he adds softly, feeling the bond pulse in the back of his mind, twinned impulses, both resisting. “It’s not possible for you to lie, isn’t that what you always say?”

Jim gets to his feet then and strips off his shirt. Spock looks up at him from the floor, desire spiking, his face and thoughts matching in a rare moment of alignment. Jim holds out his hand in offer, palm open and inviting, lungs swollen with what must be cautious, misguided hope and sheer, blind faith. Spock’s gaze moves from his hand back up to his face, slow enough that Jim starts to think he’s got it wrong, that the bond isn’t telling him what he thinks it is - that the dangerous swoop of want he feels spreading through his limbs is just his own hunger being fed back to him. He freezes, trying to project _calm-happy-safe_ even as doubt starts to latch on.

“Spock,” he whispers, plaintive even to his own ears, but Spock is already rising, stepping in close to press his forehead to Jim’s, his skin cool against Jim’s feverish brow. He runs his fingers down the length of Jim’s forearm until they curl, dipping in furtively to meet his palm before Spock opens his hand, wrapping it around Jim’s like an oath.

“A kiss,” he says, sensation flickering between their hands, almost ticklish in its fervor. Jim huffs a breath of laughter, eyes drawn irresistibly to Spock’s lips, the bow of his mouth a promise Jim wants to extract.

“Yes, Spock,” he says, pressing in to have a taste, “a kiss.”


	23. Chapter 23

In the final hours before dawn, Jim sleeps curled into Spock, one arm and one leg slung possessively over his body even as Spock has his arm wrapped around Jim’s shoulders, the bond humming with contentment between them. It is so late in the night as to accurately be termed early and in a few hours they will rise and ready for the day. Even now, somewhere far above them the Farragut and other ships will be dropping into orbit, carrying guests and dignitaries from across the Federation, joined in one purpose: to witness Vulcan’s entry into the United Federation of Planets and watch Spock’s _telsu_ bond with another. There is time yet, Jim would no doubt say, and yet it is not time enough. The minutes span their fixed duration; Spock cannot halt their spend.

He looks down at Jim, his face nestled so close into Spock’s side that it is a wonder he is able to breathe - yet breathe he does, soft puffs of air warm against Spock’s bare skin. Spock feels the chill, but is unwilling to move lest Jim be wrested from much-needed slumber. He is content to guard over Jim’s repose, fascinated by the smooth skin of Jim’s shoulder under his hand.

Every touch holds untold wonder. Spock cherishes it.

Jim himself is unabashedly bare, the clean line of his back stretching into the firm curve of his posterior. Spock’s body is awash with satisfaction, his limbs twitching even now with aftershocks of remembered pleasure as he recalls the sinuous play of Jim’s body, the firm press of flesh against flesh as he had rolled his hips, focused and insistent, his fingers threaded through Spock’s as he’d lowered his mouth to kiss his lips, his cheek, his lips again. Spock thinks of the salt-slick taste of Jim’s fingers, the weight of his thighs - the way he had paused when sucking Spock, eyes wide open, watching to see evidence of Spock’s electric pleasure. Spock had given him ample proof, powerless to withhold, hitching breaths forced between his teeth as Jim bent his head to his task.

After, when Spock’s need had been sated, Jim had clambered up in desirous haste, cock heavy between his legs, reaching for Spock even as he was eagerly received, licking into his open mouth with unnameable hunger to push Spock’s own taste back onto his tongue. Jim had touched his face, his mouth, running teeth against the line of Spock’s jaw sharp enough to break the skin, Spock’s fingers digging into his hips while Jim moved in powerful strokes before burying his face in Spock’s neck and shuddering to his climax. In the midst of his desire, the need to touch Jim’s mind had been a constant feverish buzz, and yet he had resisted even though Jim was close at hand. He had reached instead for Jim’s grasp, fingers woven with fingers, damming up Jim’s arousal until the walls burst, his heady pleasure crashing through them both.

In the aftermath of orgasm, Jim was pliant and pleasantly drowsy, unwilling to part from Spock even while they settled into each other’s embrace, drawing his face along Spock’s neck in caress. His happiness was a tangible force, the weight of his elation settling over them like a blanket, present even now in the depths of slumber.

Spock cannot part from him.

And yet he must: Jim’s designs have been plain from the very first. He had arrived on Vulcan intent on marriage to T’Pring. That his intentions have been swayed is irrelevant; he must be obedient to his duty, just as Spock must be to his own. Had Spock been the child of two Vulcans, perhaps he could have been a candidate for this union, but he is not, and it is not in his nature to dwell on that which is impossible. He cannot alter what he is, and nor does he wish to. It would not change that Jim’s trajectory leaves Vulcan in his wake. A captaincy awaits him, and a ship of his own. Spock can give him neither.

In the morning, Spock will help Jim dress; will tie the cords of his raiment and cover his shoulders in the formal robes of _kal’i’farr_. He will part with him at the door and follow him into the city in his father’s transport before submitting to the removal of his _koon’ul_ with T’Pring. He will forfeit his bonds, both of them, and then, though he will no doubt be taxed from the proceedings, he will sit at his mother’s side as the healer leads Jim’s mind to T’Pring’s, fulfilling the promise of their nation states and joining to become one. Spock will not flinch. He will not falter. He will accept what comes to pass, and should he mourn, the grief will be his own to foster. Jim will be gone from him.

But that is then. For now, Jim is in his arms, stirring from his rest. He looks up at Spock, smiling beatifically as he turns his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to Spock’s pectoral, mouth warm and wet. He pushes himself up the bed until his gaze is level with Spock’s.

“Hi.”

Spock quirks his eyebrow, knowing it will elicit a smile. The act is successful; Jim huffs a laugh, prodding knowingly at the bond.

“I knew you did that on purpose,” he says, eyes dozing. He reaches up a hand to brush the hair from Spock’s brow before lingering, thumb smoothing back and forth at Spock’s temple. “You all right?”

“The phrase ’all right’ has—”

“—variable meanings, yes, I know,” says Jim. “Suppose I walked into that one.”

“You are reclined,” Spock notes.

“You bet I am,” Jim replies, lifting his arms to stretch before releasing the tension and dropping back into the pillow. He turns his head to look at Spock once more. “Seriously, though. Are you all right? You scared the heck out of me earlier.”

He is talking about the pain Spock had undergone, a pain that in the absence of his shielding had no doubt passed to Jim. Spock probes his mind gently for the wound, wondering at its source, but the bond has obscured it in its entirety. He can no more seek its roots than he can keep his thoughts from Jim, though in the aftermath of their mutual pleasure Spock had found respite in meditation for the first time in weeks. His shields were feeble but strengthening, able to do so unimpeded now he was no longer focused on denying the bond.

Something of his thoughts must show because Jim does not ask him again. Light from T’Khut streaks through the room, cutting across their bodies in pale beams, highlighting the bridge of Jim’s nose, the bow of his mouth, the smooth round curve of his cheek and the square line of his jaw. He is beautiful and masculine, his shoulders loose with indulgence. Spock thinks back to the many times he had found Jim in the library, sprawled across the furniture in varying states of ease - the way he would choose to seat himself, arm flung over the back of the chair, legs open. He is comfortable in his body, and takes pleasure in that comfort.

Spock has never sucked a man, but the desire overcomes him in a wave, strong enough to rouse Jim from the verge of unconsciousness. Sensing Spock’s appetite, he turns to him again. “Really?”

“You are enticing,” Spock says, candor possible in the absence of other concerns. He glides his hand over the expanse of Jim’s belly, months of exercise unable to completely diminish his softness here, his hips pleasingly wide.

Jim catches the tenor of the thought, brow raising in outright surprise. “Really?” He sounds dumbfounded, tone flattened in disbelief, but any startled skepticism is soon overcome by want as Spock ventures further, hand brushing through the hair on his abdomen and then lower still, seeking out the convergence of Jim’s desires where best they manifest. He is no longer erect, but Spock can sense his willingness; he reaches out through his touch to push the ache along. Jim shivers, hips lifting as Spock’s hand reaches its destination. “Oh shit,” he hisses through his teeth as Spock experiments with tension and release, successfully, if Jim’s aborted motion is to be taken as evidence. Spock’s own arousal is a low, insistent hum that is easily put aside for the time being.

He releases Jim briefly in order to maneuver between his legs, Jim assisting by spreading his knees in a lewd display. He hisses sharply as Spock tends to him again, pushing back gently on his foreskin before ducking to kiss the head. Differences in Vulcan and human anatomy aside, Spock’s fascination with Jim’s body extends beyond the scientific in a way he had not thought probable. Jim is broad where Spock is not; soft planes where Spock is sharp. Jim gasps his name, whining as Spock bends to take him into his mouth, savoring the contrast. His skin is soft here and it stretches taut as Jim’s blood rushes south, the taste of his semen bitter, salt and musk mixing in a heavy, pungent aroma. The flush of Jim’s desire is a heady thing and Spock finds it suits his needs to elicit more of the same, to comfort Jim and to stoke his passion - to hold him safe while holding him down. Whatsoever is within Spock’s gift he wishes to relinquish to Jim.

Spock has never known hunger of this kind; Jim is heavy on his tongue and warm, legs jerking as he tries to hold himself still. Bracing his hands on Jim’s thighs in an effort to settle him, Spock suckles carefully, drawing away to press his tongue firmly against the vein in Jim’s cock, thrilling in the Jim’s strength as he bucks abortively. Fascinated, he lowers his head suckle Jim’s testes, the texture a new experience before he noses his way to the soft skin below, pressing his tongue to Jim’s perineum. The kiss elicits a full-bodied convulsion, so Spock does it again, and a third time, heady with the flush of Jim’s excitement. Quietly overcome, Spock opens his mouth again, rising to take Jim into his mouth once more as Jim’s hands come to rest on his head, not holding but fretting gently at his hair. His fingers run lightly over the point of Spock’s ears causing him to shiver, wanting to move from Jim’s maddening caress but aching also to push further into it. He feels tender; he feels inflamed. The thrill of Jim’s arousal is an intriguing counterpoint to Spock’s own which, though less pressing, is gaining in breadth.

Jim’s grip tightens in Spock’s hair as he continues his ministrations, savoring the feel of Jim’s spiralling anticipation until Jim, flushed and panting, tugs on his shoulders. “Up, up, come here,” Jim whines, pulling ineffectually on Spock’s arms as he slides off Jim’s cock, pressing his mouth to the inside of Jim’s thigh before heeding his insistent urging to return to the head of the bunk.

Jim kisses Spock deeply, tongue pressing firmly into his mouth while his hand circles them both and begins to pull in a desperate faltering rhythm, using his weight to roll them over so he can press his hand to the mattress for leverage. Spock grasps greedily at Jim’s sides, plucking handfuls of warm, supple flesh as Jim thrusts against him, grunting in baited satisfaction. Spock’s hands ache with restraint: he opens his mind to the heated vigor of Jim’s passions but resists the call of Jim’s mind. He had not imagined - could not have in any case - how strong the temptation would be, how pressing. What he had imagined was this: that Jim might stay; that Jim might take Spock with him into space; that when the terrible needs of Spock’s body at last overcome the strictures of his mind, Jim might come to him, offering him sanctuary. It is his deepest desire to find refuge in Jim’s bright and generous mind and it is that avarice that claws at his forbearance, asking more of Spock than he is willing to take; more of Jim than he is able to give.

Tension gathers within the muscles of his abdomen; Jim whines, thrusts erratic as he tucks his head into Spock’s neck mouthing frantically at the tendon there. Raising his arms to gather Jim close as he reaches fever pitch, Spock cradles his head beneath his palm, feeling wonder at the depth of Jim’s desires, _want-need-more_ all echoed by something sweeter, something keening and tinged with grief. Jim lifts his mouth to Spock’s ear, hands either side of his head as he uses the leverage to push down against Spock, keeping him close, bringing him along. “You’re mine,” Jim gasps, his words thick with anguish, pushing forcefully against Spock, their bodies slick with sweat and exertion, movements frantic, “you’re _mine_.” Spock gasps at the possession Jim feels, gives over to it in its entirety; tucks his own head close and reaches unthinkingly for the bright ardent press of Jim’s mind for one lashing taste - feels Jim’s body stutter fiercely against his own, coiling tighter and tighter until the pressure breaks, pleasure rushing through Jim’s body and into Spock’s, the force of his elation tipping Spock unerringly into his own.

Jim collapses, boneless, his hand seeking out Spock’s to entwine their fingers, thumb pushing faintly into the thenar eminence in such a way as to send tremors of echoed pleasure through his body, lighting up against already tender nerves. The bond is a living thing, faintly singing with the sweet brush of Jim’s affections. Spock tugs lightly on Jim’s hair, leaning forward when Jim lifts his head, lips brushing, achingly gentle. The force of Jim’s proprietary words sits unacknowledged between them. Breaking the kiss, Spock presses his hand to Jim’s head, encouraging him to tuck himself back into Spock’s neck. “Sleep,” Spock murmurs, conscious of the hour, even as Jim fights his exhaustion in an attempt to prolong their intimacy. Spock moves to coax him along with a touch but it is unnecessary; Jim’s stubbornness is no match for his own lethargy and he is half-way asleep even as Spock settles down to join him.

They fall asleep this way, satiated and entangled, prolonging their contact even in dormancy, unwilling to be parted until dawn demands.

  
  


Jim is heavy. Spock lifts him carefully from his side at first light, pausing as he makes a noise of complaint before rolling onto his other side. Covering him with a sheet, Spock leaves him to his rest, heading to the fresher to complete his ablutions. He catches sight of himself in the mirror, shoulder and torso mottled with bruises from Jim’s attentions. Most will be hidden by his clothing but he will have to retrieve the dermal regen for the verdigris marks blossoming across his neck and under his jaw. He presses at them curiously, intrigued by the dull sting of them under the fresher light, having little recollection of pain while they were administered. Irrationally, he wishes to keep them, to wear them as a badge of pride, but it is a passing notion, one he cannot indulge. Opening the cabinet, he retrieves the dermal regenerator and sets to work passing it over his maculated skin. The sensation of regrowth is always that of a faint burn and afterwards the skin is flushed and soft.

He does not use it on his chest.

Putting the regen back, Spock finds a tri-ox hypo in the cabinet that he places on the counter for Jim’s use - likely the last time he will have cause to - before turning to use the sonics.

When he vacates the fresher, Jim is newly woken, lying on his back but pushing himself up onto his elbows to look around the room, sheet sliding down to reveal his bare chest. He has not had much cause to enter Spock’s space; typically Spock’s rooms have been his own domain, one little incurred upon by others, and it is a privacy he has maintained even as Jim resides in the rooms next door.

Jim is golden in the early morning light, sun not yet over the horizon, and Spock wishes to go to him, to touch him. He does not. After a moment, his resolve makes itself known to Jim who deflates, disappointed. Spock remains firm for both their sakes, strengthening his shields.

“It is time to rise,” he says, somewhat nonsensically. “You will need to shower before you dress.” He turns away, towel secured around his waist, and seeks out his clothes for the day, conscious all the while of Jim’s every move - the sound of sheets being pushed away, his body moving across the bed, the soft pad of feet across the floor. He pauses; Spock looks up to see he is holding out his fingers in silent request.

For a moment Spock considers turning away but the weight of Jim’s imploring gaze is too much to ignore and so he meets the touch, rubbing his own fingers against Jim’s once, shivering as they make contact before dropping his hand. “Jim,” he says softly. “We must depart in an hour.”

Jim nods heading for the fresher, scratching idly at his belly as he goes. It’s an unconscious act, not designed to provoke, but it raises Spock’s pulse nonetheless. He closes his eyes, renewing his control.

He dresses quickly, leaving his robes until last. He will don these after he has helped Jim to dress in his own, aware that Jim will need the assistance, and changes his sheets before retrieving Jim’s clothes from his room, received by Sarek from the tailor the day before. Though the material is lighter than Spock’s own garb in deference to Jim’s human inability to regulate his temperature, the fabric of the tunic is stiff and unyielding in an effort to prevent creasing. The robes themselves are softer, made from a plush fibre that is pleasing to the touch. Spock is intrigued to see that the embroidery is a very dark purple. His mother’s influence, he believes; a connection between Jim and the S’chn T’gai line that will be noticed by the Vulcans in attendance if no one else. Despite himself, Spock feels satisfied at the addition of this detail.

Jim emerges from the fresher still unclothed, but subdued now, not making a show of himself. Spock watches him cross the room to the bed where Spock has laid out his garments, reaching for his underwear and stepping into them one foot at a time before tugging them up his legs to cover himself. He is looking at the clothes Spock has laid out as though undecided about them, reaching out to finger the embroidery on the ceremonial robe. He sighs in resignation.

“Where do I start?”

Spock lifts the breeches; though it would be easier to pass these to Jim for him to don himself, Spock finds himself uncharacteristically hesitant. After a moment he crouches, gathering the hems to allow Jim to step into the legs unimpeded. Jim lets out a shock of breath, pausing momentarily before stepping into each leg in turn. Spock pulls the fabric gently over his legs, neither lingering nor making haste. He moves his hands to the band of the trousers, pulling them up over Jim’s hips and rear, not looking away as he returns to his full height. This close he can feel the heat emanating from Jim’s skin.

Jim swallows. “What next?”

Spock selects the undershirt next, a cream-colored weave made from ShiKahrian silk, the thread so fine as to be almost translucent, provided to protect Jim’s skin from the rougher fabric of the tunic. Jim ducks his head to allow Spock to lift the neck over his hair and past his ears, burrowing through to assist the movement before pushing his arms into the sleeves as Spock pulls them back for him, first one arm and then the next. His skin is flushed; he takes cautious if not shallow breaths, as though unwilling to break the quiet between them, his manner tentative and soft. Spock is careful not to touch Jim’s skin except through the cover of clothing.

Unprompted, he retrieves the tunic next which fastens at the front, similar to Jim’s dress uniform. As the front is asymmetrical, there is a tie on the inside and a magnetic snap to hold the front closed. Spock opens it wide, hands over the collar and shoulder forcing the sleeves outward so that Jim can turn and step back into it, pushing his arms into the sleeves before Spock draws the thicker weave over them, pulling the stiff fabric so that it moves up his arms and rests comfortably on his back. Jim turns back to face him then, making no move to fasten the front, and Spock reaches in to secure the inner cords, movements brusque to maintain the tension of his hold while he makes a knot, knuckles brushing against Jim’s stomach. Taking the collar, he pulls the remaining flap across Jim’s torso, tugging it gently at the collar to align it properly before pressing firmly with his thumb to engage the first snap. Jim swallows again, the weight of his anguish a sodden, grieving mass that sits in his chest, palpable to Spock as he tugs and secures the tunic from chest to mid-thigh, straightening the cloth as he goes. The tunic is a mellow brown with yellow undertones, the fibres a mix of flax, silk and a synthetic blend close to the texture of Terran cotton. The weave is tightly braided and without ornament, the crossing of threads decoration enough. Spock lifts his hands to Jim’s shoulders, pulling the fabric so that it sits properly.

His attention is diverted by a burst of intention from Jim, the only warning he gets before Jim lifts his hands to cover Spock’s, tipping forward to press their foreheads together, his eyes squeezed shut. Spock pauses, tightening his shields against the rush of sensation that threatens to spill over as Jim grasps his hands, grip tightening with barely-restrained desperation. He is trembling; his thoughts are a maelstrom raging outside the reach of Spock’s mental defenses.

“I can’t do this, Spock,” Jim says, voice rough with emotion. “I can’t.”

Spock is quiet in his reply, aiming to soothe but not practiced at the motion. “You can,” he says, trying not to remember the way Jim had held his hands in the small hours of the day, the thick, salted heat of his hunger as he’d chased his arousal. “You must.”

The noise Jim makes can barely be described as a laugh, a sharp exhalation of air that speaks more to misery than mirth. He nods briefly, then straightens, letting his hands fall to his sides still curved as though curiously empty. Spock presses his palms against Jim’s shoulders needlessly, the fabric having held up admirably against Jim’s ministrations, then reaches around Jim to pull the robes closer on the bed. Beginning with the ceremonial stoles he drapes one and then the other over Jim’s shoulders, bringing them in so they sit close about his collar and fall in straight lines across his front. Next, he reaches around Jim to secure a dark, wide sash, on top of which he then secures a belt, cinching the waistline so that the fabric of Jim’s clothes sits in neat vertical lines, drawing the eye to the long length of him even with the breadth of his shoulders.

Lastly the robe itself, a dark brown that billows with volume, with wide sleeves that reach Jim’s wrists in deference to Vulcan propriety, while symmetrical pleats in the back give the illusion of structure where otherwise there is none. The border at the lapels is wide, embroidered with Vulkhansu. Usually it contains notes of lineage, names from both maternal and paternal lines, but in the absence of this knowledge - and no doubt an unwillingness to transcribe the Standard - someone had chosen a Surakian proverb: _In infinite diversity, there are infinite combinations. In infinite diversity, we find indefinite strength._ It is a tacit reminder to those who can read it that Jim - and therefore the Federation - is to be welcomed. Spock suspects his mother’s intervention. He steps back to appraise his work.

Jim looks... regal.

Though the garments are no doubt unfamiliar to him, he wears them with ease, head held high, shoulders back, and the cut of each piece has strong lines that are aesthetically pleasing. The sun has broached the horizon, casting warm light across the room, and it lights upon the fine silk in robe, shimmering subtly and giving the appearance of gold. Only Jim’s face does not match, brow and lips down turned. He watches Spock’s surveyal of him with discernible frustration.

Spock looks away, reaching for his own robe. “We must break fast,” he says, shaking out the folds and swinging it over his own shoulders. He makes quick work of straightening the pleats, flattening the border against his chest and shaking out the sleeves so that they sit properly. Turning back, he finds Jim is suddenly much closer, rising on his toes as though to take a kiss. Spock steps back to avert the touch.

“Jim.”

Jim’s face falls, a curious expression which heretofore Spock had not understood in entirety. And yet it is fitting, the anticipation in his features disappearing as the muscles slacken. “Spock, come on,” he protests.

But Spock is unwilling to be moved. The night has passed; the day is here. The time for assignations has passed. " _Ashayam_ , do not take my actions as indications of an absence of mutual accord,” he says, trying to explain. “In two hours, you will wed, and I must bear witness to the proceedings. It is not,” he adds, “that I do not feel as you do, but that I must not.” He watches as resigned understanding passes over Jim’s features. “I must ask you to respect my position, and furthermore, to shield yourself.” Jim’s feelings, much like his manner, are loud, a fact which Spock ought to have predicted, all things considered.

They leave the room and head downstairs to take breakfast. Spock prepares the morning meal to take up to his mother who will need his assistance in dressing for the day, and so he departs after preparing tea and gathering repast, leaving Jim to break his fast alone. It is regrettable but necessary, their prolonged proximity adding insult to their mutual injury.

Spock sits with his mother to eat - she has lowered herself into her chair already, indicating that she has been awake for a while - and they breakfast in quiet, Amanda interrupting only once to ask whether Jim is prepared. Spock answers in the affirmative. Afterwards, he carries her to the fresher and leaves her there to tend to her ablutions while he clears away the dishes and folds her wheelchair to take it downstairs. The kitchen, when he enters, is empty, but the door to the garden is open. Resisting his curiosity, Spock avoids looking out the window, instead clearing the food from the table. He leaves to assist his mother in dressing. Outside, Jim sits alone.


	24. Chapter 24

By the time Spock arrives back downstairs with Amanda, Jim has picked up his bags from his room and is waiting in the foyer, his luggage a final reminder that he won’t be coming back any time soon. Nori had told him that after the wedding he and T’Pring would be set up in a home of their own, somewhere to live out the next three months before Starfleet comes to pick him up again. It’s traditional for the newlyweds to live in a home provided for them by their parents: secluded from attention, but safe in the care of their families. While Jim’s family isn’t involved in proceedings, T’Pring’s father has nonetheless arranged for them to have a marital property, one T’Pring will inhabit alone once Jim departs for service. He hasn’t given much thought to what that will be like but after the quiet, unassuming care he’s received in Sarek and Amanda’s home, whatever his in-laws have found for him has a lot to live up to.

A transport is due to arrive from ShiKahr in the next five minutes, one for Jim and a second for Spock and Amanda. They’re to travel separately, in part to save Amanda from the burden of scrutiny when they arrive at the Great Hall, and in part because Aberforth had insisted Jim maintain at least some appearance that he’s here with the Federation. The crew from the Farragut had beamed down at dawn, Bones calling ahead to let him know of their arrival. Despite this, Jim’s reaching that point where he doesn’t care - he’ll sit where he’s told to sit and he’ll do what he’s told to do, but any investment he’d had in the marriage had flown out the window the second he’d learned how it felt to put his mouth to Spock’s. He wishes now he’d managed to stay awake longer the night before; wishes he’d eked out more kisses while he still could. That Spock had indulged him in the _ozh’esta_ that morning was less of a fluke and more of a farewell, and the distance he’s put between them, however necessary, hurts. Any other day he’d push harder, but apart from knowing he shouldn’t, he can feel Spock’s precarious calm, even as it’s tucked away behind his shields, and even at his most selfish, Jim doesn’t want to make this any harder on him than it’s going to be already. Jim prods lightly at the place in the back of his mind where the bond had taken root, but feels no answering nudge. He wonders briefly what it will feel like when the healer separates them. The thought makes him wince; he doesn’t want to give Spock up, not even an inch.

He hears Spock approaching before he sees him, the slow but steady pace of laden footsteps as he carries Amanda down the stairs. She’s dressed in a dark emerald gown with long sleeves, hands covered in what look like lace gloves and a thick hooded cowl that covers her hair which, from the look of it, is secured neatly in a bun. She smiles at Jim as they approach, taking in his robes with an air of approval.

“Oh, don’t you look handsome?” she beams, oblivious to the strange air between him and Spock. “You know, I wasn’t sure whether it would be too much but the tailor’s done good work. Don’t you think?” This last she directs up to her son as he descends the final steps.

“The tailoring shows evidence of fine craftsmanship,” Spock says, settling Amanda gently into a waiting chair.

She slaps his chest lightly. “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she says fondly. Her wheelchair has been folded away and is waiting by the door. Jim wonders how much attention it will bring, but it’s better than Amanda having to be carried from place to place. At least with her chair she can get from room to room under her own steam, though Spock will probably be close at hand.

Spock straightens, tugging at his robes to straighten them, Amanda reaching out to help him. “The question was ambiguous, Mother,” he says. “Nonetheless, I agree with your assessment.”

Jim fights not to blush at the words even as Spock casts an approving if not brief and reserved glance over him.

“As well you should,” Amanda says, smiling. “Spock, will you fetch my shawl? If the controls in the Hall are anything like a starship, I’ll catch my death of cold— yes, I know that’s unlikely,” she says, cutting off nascent protests about the absurdity of hypothermia within an environment designed to be of evenly-dispersed discomfort for all attendees. “It would be useful to have the shawl regardless, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Jim watches as Spock bounds effortlessly up the stairs then comes to stand by Amanda’s side. Surprisingly, she takes his hand, something he’d seen her take pains to avoid even when they were gloved, which would vary from day to day in a pattern he’d never worked out. He must be looking rough.

“It’s an important thing you’re doing today,” she says, looking at him carefully. “Probably not how you imagined it, but a good thing all the same, even if it is more than ought to have been asked of you.” She squeezes his hand, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “It’s all right if you’re nervous. Eminently logical, in fact.”

“I’m not used to getting cold feet,” Jim says, which is true even if that’s not at the root of whatever his face is broadcasting. He tries to smile for her. “First time for everything, I suppose.”

“Quite.” She reaches into the folds of her dress, pulling out a sprig. It’s a _lirka_ vine, entwined with a cutting from the _niv’orakh_ , both harvested from her garden. The buds are newly flowering; by the end of the day they’ll be in full bloom. Jim’s heart stops in his throat when he recognizes them.

Amanda pulls on his hand, beckoning him towards her and he kneels at her feet as she relinquishes him to pin the braid to the wide collar of his robes. “See? Perfect.” She smooths her hands over his shoulders. “Red and green, like humans and Vulcans.” She pulls a face as though acknowledging silliness on her part. “I know, not quite. But I rather thought it fitting. Plus,” she adds, “this way there’s a little of us with you through the day.” She takes his face in her hands then, stroking her thumb across the expanse of his cheek, and Jim feels his breath catch at the kindness of her. “You’ll be all right,” she says fondly. “I’m very proud of you, Jim.”

She lets go of him before he can thank her, hearing Spock descend the stairs again. Jim steps away, eyes damp, trying to get himself under control. He fusses with his robes, in an attempt to get them to sit properly as Spock lays a thick shawl over his mother’s legs.

“The transport is late,” says Spock.

That makes Jim look up. It would be one thing if they were on Earth, or somewhere else in the Federation, but Vulcans don’t do late. Something is wrong.

Spock’s eyes meet Jim and for a second, shield or no shield, they each know what the other is thinking: what if someone knows?

It’s impossible, Jim thinks; how would they? He’d only managed to get Spock to put his hands on him a few hours before, and until then Spock had more or less been fighting a one-man war within the confines of his mind. Neither of them had been in ShiKahr for weeks; other than Sarek’s sporadic returns to the house, no other Vulcans had crossed their paths.

But, Jim realizes, Sarek isn’t the only Vulcan Spock’s linked to. His whole family’s sitting up there somewhere and, more importantly, so is T’Pring.

Could she have felt them the night before? Would she use it as an exit? Jim’s never really had a handle on what T’Pring thinks about anything so he can’t work out whether she liked Jim enough that he was at least the devil she knew. Regardless of the bond, turning Jim and Spock in would only mean she has to swap out suitors. Or maybe she thinks it’s a good enough way to halt proceedings as they stand, buying her time to find a way to get out of the entire arrangement once and for all. Whichever it is, the delay in proceedings doesn’t bode well for anyone. He wants to push at the bond but he’s scared to, worried it’ll compound the issue.

“Perhaps we got the time wrong?” Amanda asks, looking up at Spock, the expression on her face suggesting she knows how unlikely that is.

Despite his calm facade, something about Spock rings with alarm.

Jim’s about to suggest he get in contact with his father when the door slides open unexpectedly and Sarek enters, an older woman behind him. Spock straightens abruptly at the sight of her, as though someone somewhere had pulled his strings, and behind him Amanda has turned pale. Spock steps forward, subtly placing his mother behind him.

" _Ko-mekh’il_ ,” Spock intones, his attention directed at the newcomer. " _Dif-tor heh smusma_.” He raises the _ta’al_.

She’s a diminutive woman with towering hair, gaze severe and unblinking. She raises the _ta’al_ in return, other hand grasping the ornate head of a burnt-burgundy cane. Jim wonders idly whether he’s going to be tortured with _niv’orakhs_ all day but he’s distracted from the thought when the woman speaks. " _Sochya el dif, sa-fu’al,_ " she says in return, her voice arch but powerful.

Amanda, surprisingly, doesn’t speak but looks to her husband in question instead. He doesn’t cross to her like he normally does, directing his flat, piercing gaze at Spock instead and it sets a slow glide of panic down Jim’s spine, his pulse hiccuping into action. He knows, Jim thinks. He’s not sure how, but _Sarek knows_.

“The _kal’i’farr_ will not proceed today.”

Spock doesn’t flinch but Jim can’t take it anymore. Putting aside the weirdness of the woman with him, Jim turns to Sarek. “What does that mean? What’s going on?”

Unfortunately for him, it’s the woman who answers. “A mating bond cannot be enacted,” she says, carefully enunciating each word in Standard, “where one is already in place.”

There can’t be a person in the room who doesn’t hear Jim’s heart trying to beat right out of his chest. He feels rather than sees Spock tense up in his periphery.

“My son,” says Sarek. “Are you well?”

Spock doesn’t answer the question, though he gives a half-bow, hands clasped behind his back. It’s a familiar sight in unfamiliar times and Jim’s heart aches to see it.

“Father,” he says, “your words do not suffice. Please explain further.”

“Oh, you want an explanation, do you?” booms a loud familiar voice from the door. " _I’ll_ explain. Happy to!” Everyone turns in its direction as Aberforth bustles through, followed by, of all people, Toddan. They can’t help themselves, Jim thinks. It’s like they saw chaos brewing and got upset they weren’t invited. Aberforth looks manic with glee, practically frothing at the bit as he swaggers in, his formal clothes lush with fine silk that doesn’t quite sit properly across his stomach. He claps his eyes on Jim, his grin wide and absurd.

“The damn girl’s only run off with another chap, hasn’t she!”

  
  


Afterwards, speeding away from the house in a Fleet-requisitioned vee, Jim will put two and two together and realize the pain Spock had experienced the night before had been T’Pring severing her _koon’ul_ with him without the intervention of a healer. He’s not sure whether Spock’s plan to hide the bond would have worked now that he knows what he’d gone through, but at least it would have been kinder than what T’Pring had chosen, leaving Spock to suffer the aftereffects of dissolving the _koon’ul_ without warning him or letting him have help on hand if he’d needed it. It’s an act that smacks of desperation, a feeling Jim’s more than familiar with, but there’s a fairly large, petty part of him that wonders whether she’d needed to be so cruel.

As it is, from the moment Aberforth arrives, Jim’s day is turned upside down. He’s not alone, either; the Admiralty is on his tail, Pike and Nogura having taken their own transport to come and extract Jim, and by the time they pull up, Jim and Spock still don’t have the full story.

“Apparently she’s had her eye on the lad a long time,” Aberforth was saying as Nogura had stormed in minutes after him, Pike hurrying to catch up. If Sarek had been annoyed by their unannounced arrival he hadn’t let it show, but Jim could tell Spock was anxious for Amanda. Whether that was because of all the uninvited guests or just one in particular, Jim hadn’t quite worked out, but Spock had stood at rest in front of his mother, doing his best to shield her without entirely blocking her view. Amanda had both her hands clenched on her lap and while she’d been listening intently, she’d kept her eyes fixed to the floor beside her.

Jim had tried to cut Aberforth off before he really got going but the man was like a turbo train once he got started - nothing short of nuclear war would stop him and even that was debatable. “Sir— Ambassador,” Jim had said, holding up his hand to get the man to slow down, “what ’lad’? What the hell is going on?”

“Your fiancée,” Toddan had said, voice cool and collected next to Aberforth’s thundering drawl albeit with an edge of something close to delight, “has eloped with someone else.”

Unable to help himself, Jim had looked at Spock, trying to work out what that meant for him - for both of them.

“Needless to say, Commander,” Nogura interrupted, “you’ll be coming back with us.” He’d looked over at Aberforth with nothing less than contempt. “This farce has gone on long enough.”

“I’ll give you farce, Admiral,” Aberforth had volleyed, having entirely too much fun. “Do you know what this is? Grounds for renegotiation!” He’d clapped his hands together, the loud smack of palms echoing through the house. “Those snotty-nosed—”

“Ambassador!” Pike had cut him off. “Try to remember where the hell you are. You’re a diplomat, for pity’s sake; try to act like one.” He’d turned to Sarek and the woman behind him, sketching out a quick, neat now. “Ambassador Sarek, Lady T’Pau, forgive the intrusion. Events have gotten away from us.”

Right - that was another thing. The woman who’d waltzed in with Sarek had been his mother, the first person in history known to have turned down a seat on the Federation’s Council. Almost thirty years ago, when Vulcan and the Federation had first tried this dance, it had been T’Pau running the show and while the records show she wasn’t exactly opposed to the proposed arrangement, she’d also turned two fingers up at the invitation to personally join the Federation Council, something that had sent mixed messages into what was already a powder keg waiting to blow.

No wonder, then, that her sudden appearance had surprised Amanda. For all that everyone had known T’Pau would be in attendance, she’d promised to keep away from the house. Then T’Pring had pulled a fast one and thrown everyone off course. A holocall might have been nice if only to warn Amanda, but from what Jim’s experienced, that’s not really the Vulcan style. Why give some news in advance if all of it can be relayed together which seemed logical enough until you took into account humans and their pesky emotional baseline.

For all that Pike’s with Starfleet he’d done a fairly good job of getting everyone back on an even keel before looking up to seek Jim out. He’d waved Jim over like he hadn’t want to step any further into the house, subtly implying that it was in deference to Sarek while also managing to stop Aberforth from getting ahead of himself. “You got your bags, Commander?” he’d asked, _sotto voce_. “We’ve got quarters for you back in the city. Who knows how long this thing will take to iron out but I want you with our people while it does.”

There’d been more violent gesticulating from Aberforth - complemented by sly articulation from Toddan - while everyone gathered had tried to get an elbow in. Jim had only met Nogura once before but that was a long time ago and at a distance. He’d never seen a man go so violently red in the face, wondering whether that’s how he’d looked when he’d first arrived on Vulcan. Nogura’s bluster didn’t seem to have a root cause; he just liked to throw his weight around. Jim would have intervened if it hadn’t been for Pike’s restraining hold on his arm. He’d pulled Jim back, angling himself between him and the two roaring humans, all the while watching everyone carefully. Jim had been glad to have Pike in his corner even as his own head was still spinning from the news.

In the end Pike had maneuvered Aberforth and Nogura back towards the door, all the while managing to keep a respectful tone when dealing with Sarek and T’Pau, the former mildly appalled, the latter seemingly bored. Jim had tried to duck around to look at Spock but Pike’s grip had been firm, steering him to the exit as well. “We’ll just be out of your hair,” he’d said, having managed to grab Jim’s bags and hand them over to him, nodding to his so-called hosts as he’d gone, “we’ll speak to you soon, no doubt.” He’d pushed Jim firmly out the door, despite his stymied sounds of protest - over his shoulder Jim had watched as Spock had bent to gather up Amanda, turning away from his father and T’Pau as the door closed behind him. Pike had jostled Jim, still in those damn robes, until he was turned the right way and practically frog-marched him back to the vee.

Now, as they hurtle back towards the city, Jim closes his eyes, tipping his head against the window while Nogura and Pike talk over him in hushed tones. He seeks out the part of his mind where the bond is and pictures a door in his mind’s eye, tapping on it gently. There’s no reply, and Jim can’t hear or feel anything from the other side that indicates that Spock is close by. He wonders what happens now. He wonders if he gets to keep the bond.

  
  


They take him further into the heart of ShiKahr, away from the lower quarter where he’d been housed before and closer towards the old town where the High Command’s council was held. There are fewer offworlders here - fewer people in general - and the buildings seem to stretch for leagues above them. The driver eases them through the narrow streets without flinching, the looming shadows making everything cool and dark. He doesn’t learn much on the journey, isn’t paying attention to Pike and Nogura, the events of the past week catching up with him - the thrill of anticipation as he’d tried his best to woo Spock; the feel of being in his hands; the slow agony of the morning as he’d helped clothe Jim, so close but emotionally all too far. And then the fear he’d felt, turning him shocky, when it looked like he’d crossed one line too many, offset by the bewildering news of T’Pring’s elopement - it had been too much. He’s trying his best to surface but between his bone-deep exhaustion and the motion of the vee, it feels like too much to ask of himself to be alert to his surroundings.

As it is, when they reach their destination, Nogura is whisked away to a beam-up site, bound back to Earth in all due haste. He claps Jim heavily on the back as he exits the vee, nearly knocking him on the ground as he tries to find his feet in the fabric of the robes. “You’ve the full force of the Fleet behind you, Kirk,” he says, “we’ll get you through this unscathed. I’ll be damned if I let anyone cast aspersions on my men.” Jim manages to issue a salute all the while wondering whether Nogura’s words were something he should have been worrying about. How the hell was this his fault? Putting aside the part where he’d accidentally bonded with the wrong Vulcan and then not-so-accidentally had sex with them, it hadn’t even occurred to him to worry that someone might want to lay this whole mess at his feet.

He watches as Nogura gets back into the vee, disappearing around the bend before Jim has a chance to get his head around his parting words, then stoops to grab his bags and head into the property Pike had just disappeared into. It’s a far cry from where Jim’s spent most of the year, looking like it’s been carved out from the rough-hewn red-rust stone that makes up its walls. The building is old, much older than the converted apartments he and the embassy staff were housed in. It’s cool and dark inside and Jim has to blink spots out of his eyes as he tries to adjust. Up ahead, he can see Pike turn into another room, but he waits a minute, trying to get his bearings before he follows. He’s in a very small parlor; the floor is mosaicked in black and white tiles, and there are unlit lamps across the wall, tall beams set into copper-like casings fashioned to look like sconces. The ceiling is fairly low here, but looking into the next room it rises up unexpectedly. It’s a long corridor that opens out onto an empty square. On Earth it would be a garden, but here it’s just a stone-paved space, empty but for the IDIC symbol painted on the ground. Jim finds himself missing Amanda’s garden. Strange to think he’d been sitting there only a couple of hours before, wondering what it would be like to be married.

The question still stands, he presumes, though if T’Pring’s made a run for it, he doesn’t know what that means for him. Will they just find someone else, swap her in for T’Pring like one of their women is much like another? He’s beginning to think he knows why T’Pring ran, even if he’s not entirely on board with what she did before she went. He’s fairly sure if she’d asked Spock he would have let her go. Jim knows things now, things Spock would never have told him out loud, but that he’d shared easily within the bond. He knows Spock was always on T’Pring’s side, even if she hadn’t been on his, and that even though he’d never loved her, he would have tried for her sake. No one had said who it was she’d run off with but Jim’s almost certain it’s that hollow-eyed bastard who’d stared Spock down their first day at the sparring pit all those months ago. His name’s Stonn, and he’s been a pain in Spock’s ass ever since they were children - not that Spock would put it like that, though Jim had seen his torment at Stonn’s hands and felt his misery second-hand. It makes sense, he thinks bitterly, that T’Pring would choose someone just as lousy as her - and then he shakes the thought loose, feeling bad about it. T’Pring hadn’t made it a secret that she was participating in the marriage under duress, and Jim can’t say that he hadn’t wanted an exit too. Well, maybe he’s got one now. Hard to say.

When he catches up with Pike he’s talking to Barry. Jim gives her a nod hello but leaves them be, putting his bag down on a low table in the middle of the room. It’s a lot brighter than anything he’s seen yet, made possible by the large, square skylight cut into the ceiling that stretches almost from one side of the room to the other. He’s peering up at the sky when he hears a shuffle behind him.

“Well it’s about damn time. Been waiting for you to show up all morning. The hell are you wearing?”

Jim spins round. “Bones!”

His old friend grabs him by the arm and pulls him into a rough hug, patting him on the shoulder.

“You look like hell, kid,” Bones mutters. “Don’t think I’m not going to get you under a tricorder first chance I get.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Jim says, pulling back. “It’s good to see you. Captain around?”

“He’s been pulled into shuttling some folks back and forth,” says Bones. “Ship’s halfway to Andoria by now.” He drops his voice. “News hit pretty early,” he says. “Whatever your ex was up to, she wasn’t as covert about it as she could be. Her folks were the ones to contact High Command, if you can believe it.”

That sounds about right to Jim. Her parents hadn’t seemed all that interested in her wishes when they signed her up to marry a random stranger. At least Starfleet had given Jim a choice, even if he knew the consequences of saying no meant it hadn’t really been one in the long run. He wonders briefly whether she’d cut ties with her family the same way she’d done to Spock. If it had hurt Spock as much as it had, it probably hadn’t been that much fun for her either. All in all it sounds damn lonely, but then T’Pring had always seemed that way to Jim anyway.

Bones steps back as Pike and Barry approach. “Guess I won’t see you out at the site any more,” Barry says in greeting, clapping him on the back. “Pity. You’re a good worker.”

Jim looks between her and Pike. “You know something I don’t, sir?” he asks Pike.

“Oh!” says Barry, awash with realization. “Well, shit.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Pike says pointedly, leaning a little on her title. “You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, following it up with a wink. Jim tries not to react as she saunters out grinning.

“And make sure you call the Yorktown,” Pike calls after her. “If I have to hear from Una one more time—”

Barry’s reply cuts him off, carrying down the hall. “You got it, sir!”

Pike shakes his head fondly. “Well, I might as well let you know.” He smiles at Jim. “Congratulations, Kirk. You just made captain.”

Jim stands there agape while Bones grabs his shoulders from behind and shakes him, delighted. “Wait— what?”

Pike shrugs. “Truth be told, we weren’t all that keen on this wedding business anyway,” he says. “Didn’t sit right with me or Stephen—” he means Garrovick “—especially with the potential security breach the bond would have posed. Don’t get me wrong, once they sign, the Vulcans are in, but you can bet there’ll be teething problems and the last thing we need is a Starfleet officer in the middle of all that.” He looks Jim straight in the eye. “It sounds like you did more for diplomatic relations in a week than the consulate managed in almost a year. I hear Grayson’s going to make it to Babel this year?”

Jim frowns at the swing in conversation. “Yes, she’s accepted her invitation.”

Pike nods, satisfied. “It’ll be good to have her back on the circuit,” he says, “and I already know you’ve got an in with her kid.”

“Spock?” Jim asks. “Yes, but—”

“Kirk,” Pike interrupts, softening. “It’s a lot to take in, but you earned this promotion.” He sighs. “It was stupid to make you jump through the hoops, but you know how the Admiralty get.” He straightens. “The Farragut will pick you up once they’re done ferrying the big wigs back and forth, and then they’ll drop you back at Earth to select your crew.”

“My crew, sir?” Jim asks, still reeling. He flicks a glance at Bones who looks unnaturally happy. “I won’t inherit one?”

“New ship for a new captain,” Pike smiles. “Go on, ask. I know you’re about dying to.”

Next to him, Bones bounces on his feet. Jim swallows. “What’s the ship?”

Pike grins sharply. “ _Guess_.”


	25. Chapter 25

By the end of the day, Spock is in much need of meditation. He had spent the morning with his mother in an effort to be assured of her well-being: the news of T’Pring’s abscondment had been a secondary matter to T’Pau’s unexpected appearance in the house. T’Pau had remained with them for the rest of the day, keeping away from the top floor of the house but found, on at least two occasions, roaming the property as though reminding herself of its features or seeking out changes. There have not been many, save for the removal of most appliances. If this intrigues or dismays T’Pau in any way, she does not make mention of it.

She had appeared in the kitchen while Spock was preparing lunch for the family and in her own inimitable way had asked after his well-being and future plans. Spock had not seen his grandmother since she and his grandfather rescinded control of the property to his father in the wake of Spock’s mother’s injuries, and so he had been both courteous and cautious in his answers. The circumstances around the attack on his mother - for an attack it must be deemed, even at a remove - remain vague. His grandfather Skon had never admitted his part in proceedings but T’Pau had nonetheless ceded the property, if not the continent, to Sarek. And yet Spock had never been certain of the extent of his grandmother’s involvement in events. As a child he had often been the focus of T’Pau’s particular interest, intrigued by his advances in schooling and manner of deduction. He had never had cause to feel concern over her intentions; nor was her attention tinged with fondness or rancor. He had found their reacquaintance to be an unsettling but not unduly distressing occasion.

She had departed at the end of the day, a vee arriving to transport her to the spaceport so that she may return to her home on the far continent. Before T’Pau had left, she had eyed him carefully.

“The severing of any bond without the assistance of a healer is rarely without pain,” she had said, her gaze a palpable weight. “In the history of old it was said such things could only be weathered in the presence of a greater bond, one which cannot be forced, cannot be coerced.” Uncertain how to answer, Spock had held his tongue.

“It is a gift,” T’Pau had insisted. “Not one to be squandered.” She held still, watching. Spock had the curious sensation that he had received her approbation in some manner.

Eventually, T’Pau had turned to depart.

“To join thee with T’Pring had been in error; this has been long evident,” she had said, surprising Spock; he had long been of the opinion that Sarek’s choice in Spock’s _ko-kugalsu_ had been influenced by T’Pau. “Many doors open before thee, Spock. Look ahead to them.”

Spock’s father had also had words for him.

“My son, I will make plans for Healer T’Vot to attend in the morning,” he’d said as Spock had returned from bidding T’Pau farewell. It was late in the day by that point; his father had spent the majority of it within the confines of his bureau, emerging only to take Amanda her midday meal. “The breaking of any bond is not to be taken lightly. For T’Pring to do so without ensuring your well-being speaks to a callousness I had not suspected of her.”

“There is no need, Father,” Spock had replied, resting his hands behind his back. “Though the pain woke me from my sleep it has since receded. I intend to devote my time to meditation to salve the wound.”

His father had looked upon him severely. “It is not a shameful matter,” he’d said, words slow but insistent. “Only an Adept can bear the abrupt dissolution of a bond without assistance.”

“Yes, Father,” Spock had agreed, “but as you can see, I am unharmed.”

Despite his careful appraisal, Sarek had given way, an act that Spock had welcomed but also viewed with mild suspicion. “Should you require assistance, my son, you need only ask.”

And yet, Spock muses, the choice does not seem as simple as asking or not asking. What had been painful but inevitable just that morning had, in a matter of moments, become ambiguous in the extreme. There has yet to be news of any substance from ShiKahr; whether the treaty will be signed is a matter of contention, with some members on both sides arguing in favor of reopening negotiations. Should such an act be granted, the matter of Jim’s marriage will remain unanswered. Will he be tasked with marrying the next candidate, or will he be considered a factor in T’Pring’s disavowal, leaving another to be chosen from the Federation’s ranks?

The one subject not under question - the one conclusion that remains inexorable - is that when all is concluded between Vulcan and the Federation, Jim will take to the stars once more, and Spock, tied to the planet of his birth, cannot follow.

He continues to shield the bond.

There is a message awaiting him on his terminal when he returns to his rooms. Believing it to be from Jim, he opens it immediately and therefore the contents are a surprise, though in retrospect they ought not have been. The message is from T’Pring. Though it is marked by the absence of an apology, Spock is able to discern that it was written with a certain kind of sympathy in mind. When the news had arrived that morning, Spock had probed gently for the bond and found that it was true; T’Pring had severed from him. In the aura of his newly-uncovered bond with Jim, the pain had receded, yet it still remained, simmering in the recesses of his mind. He had spared a moment to mourn its loss; no doubt its absence would become more pronounced as he becomes accustomed to his bond with Jim.

As he prepares to meditate, pouring new oil into the _asenoi_ and donning the appropriate robes, Spock recalls the contents of T’Pring’s parting words.

_My decision to leave ShiKahr and bond with Stonn was made in advance of the High Command’s request to dissolve our koon’ul in favor of an envoy from the Federation. I had considered how best to cleave our bond prior to meeting you at the appointed time and exercising my right to kal’i’fee. It had been my intention to persuade you to break our koon’ul before the koon’ut’kal’i’fee. With the arrival of Commander Kirk, I believed the opportunity to do so had arrived. You denied me. I do not know your reasons. I believe they have little to do with sentiment, at least with regards to my person._

_I have also severed my familial bonds. The exertion upon my mental disciplines has been great; I am thrice-familiar with the pain you have experienced. I have asked nothing of you that I myself do not endure._

_Had there been no recourse prior to koon’ut’kal’i’fee, and had Stonn failed in his challenge, I would have accepted our bond. I am unable to predict whether I would have done so benignly. I do not object to you, Spock. Your mind is vast; your intellect sharp. Your manner intrigues me. And yet it is also true that I did not wish to reside in your wake. As children it was evident that your intellectual curiosity and sustained diligence would lead you to renown far from Vulcan. As we have grown into adulthood, your inability to fulfil the promise of your youth has become in itself a mark against your favor. Stonn and I are equals. You, who would be my better, have yet to ascend to your natural heights._

_Kolinahr is but one of many options available to you. Though it may be a worthy endeavor, I do not believe it will provide you with the answers that you seek. Your questions have begun here on Vulcan; seek their answer elsewhere. We are not children of destiny; indeed such concepts are illogical. And yet it remains that we alone determine the course of our lives, circumstances notwithstanding. I suggest you utilize your liberty in more rational pursuits. To advocate for kolinahr would be to your detriment. You will not achieve it. It is not your logical end._

She had gone on to say that she would disclose neither her location nor her plans. _There is an equal probability_ , she had written, _of our reunion as there is of our never meeting again, therefore our customary salutation is especially apt. Sochya el dif_. It reminds Spock of her words to him as adolescents when she first approached him outside the Vulcan Learning Center. _I shall neither seek nor scorn you_ , she had said at the time; the words had held true.

Lighting the lamp, Spock settles. For the first time in many weeks he is able to descend past the first level with ease. In the dark he senses Jim’s presence. He turns it away for now.

  
  


Sarek departs for ShiKahr at first light, leaving Spock and his mother to resume the business of their days. Amanda is preparing her notes for her keynote speech at Babel, while Spock is summarizing his hypotheses and avenues of research. There is a week to go before his parents depart; Spock is uncertain as to how the treaty negotiations will affect their plans. Should Sarek be required to remain on Vulcan, Spock will need to accompany his mother. It would be a disturbance to his plans, but not one he could deny her. His intention to join the Adepts remains firm for the time-being.

In the middle of the morning, the doorbell chimes.

The man at the door is human, shorter than Jim and also older. He’s holding a kit of some kind in one hand and a parasol in the other; he looks disgruntled.

“You going to let me in or leave me to die out here of heat stroke?” he asks abrasively. Spock raises an eyebrow.

The other man sighs heavily, as though put upon. “Doctor Leonard McCoy,” he says by way of introduction. “I’m here to see Mrs. Sarek.” Spock feels a frisson of alarm before he can dampen it. He is aware that he has taken to fill the doorway in an effort to shield the interior of the house from view. The doctor - McCoy - merely raises his eyebrows. “She’s expecting me.”

Spock palms the door closed, hearing a shout of frustration from the other side before the chime is rung again. Ignoring the fracas, Spock clicks the internal comm to life to contact his mother and explains their unexpected visitor.

“Oh, that’s sooner than I thought,” his mother said. Curious, Spock thinks; the visitor had been anticipated. Other than Healer T’Vot and, in a manner of speaking, Jim, Spock’s mother has not been in the habit of receiving visitors. “He’s a friend of Jim’s,” she says, adding to Spock’s surprise. “Don’t leave him outside, dear.”

Spock re-opens the door to see the doctor muttering to himself. “Now what did you mean by that?” the man asks nonsensically in a fit of fervor. “Can’t you see I’m melting out here?” Spock looks to his person and sees no degradation, but there is ample sweat gathering at his brows. The human body, Spock muses, is uncommonly wasteful. Vulcans do not sweat, but Spock had been careful to ensure Jim imbibed fluids regularly so as to replace the water his pores released under the heat of Vulcan’s heavy atmosphere and sun. He wonders briefly whether Jim has remembered to take his tri-ox then considers that perhaps there are others to see to his care now.

He steps out of the doorway to allow the doctor entry. McCoy follows, closing the parasol and leaning it against the wall outside, muttering a stream of incomprehensible phrases under his breath that Spock does not attempt to decipher. He seems an unlikely candidate for the role of both caregiver or friend; the same is no doubt true of Spock himself. He resists from asking after Jim.

McCoy pins him with a look as though he heard the passing thought. “Jim’s fine, by the way, not that you asked.”

Spock cocks an eyebrow but strengthens his shields nonetheless.

The doctor provides intermittent commentary as he traipses up the stairs behind Spock, his tone one of begrudging wonderment even as his words bite. He takes umbrage at the size of the property, the quiet of it, but does not mention the staircase, or the mechanism that allows Spock and his father to flatten the stairs until they’re one smooth incline that functions adequately as a ramp. Spock is uncertain as to its use; they rarely wheel his mother down, usually carrying first her chair and then Amanda herself. It is a process somewhat lacking in efficiency, but Spock has the vague suspicion his mother does not entirely trust the staircase, and regardless it is no burden to move her as she requests. Spock wonders how much of his mother’s situation has been relayed to the doctor and for what reason he has been brought to their door.

“Mrs. Sarek, I presume?” McCoy says as Spock leads him into his mother’s day parlor. She is seated by the armchair, awaiting their arrival, though Spock can see her papers are spread on the bureau, a sign that she had been interrupted in the course of her work.

She smiles, close-lipped but welcoming, as though Jim’s recommendation had been enough to ward off her usual veneer of wariness. “Doctor McCoy,” she says, “welcome.” She does not invite him to use her given name; it is remarkably revealing.

The doctor has lost some of his erosive quality, though his manner remains brusque. “I’m here to talk to you about new research—”

“Yes, so you said,” Amanda says, cutting him off firmly but genially enough to be polite. “Spock,” she says, “would you bring some tea. And water for the doctor, if you please.” It is not a request; Spock does not take it as one, but is reluctant to leave his mother in the presence of a stranger.

His mother seems to understand, softening a little. “Shouldn’t take too long,” she says.

“Indeed, Mother,” says Spock. He casts an appraising glance at McCoy before he goes.

“Friendly fellow, isn’t he?” he hears the doctor say as he makes his way down the stairs. He does not hear his mother’s reply but he suspects he knows the tenor of it - mild reprove accompanied by an acknowledgement of Spock’s Vulcan heritage. His parents have never expected anything of him but what he is, but they each cherish that in him which they find familiar. For a moment Spock is given cause to think of Jim who is perhaps the one person who had no expectations of Spock whatsoever: Jim did not ask Spock to be more human or less Vulcan, only present and willing. Spock wonders whether he has failed him.

He takes his time brewing the tea, knowing he will sense his mother’s distress should she have need of him. He plucks fresh herbs from the garden and allows them to steep before fetching a glass of water for the doctor. By the time he returns to his mother’s rooms, McCoy is seated in the waiting armchair and his mother is reading a PADD avidly.

“I’m not entirely sure what this means,” she says, as Spock deposits the tray on her side table before handing the glass to the doctor, careful to not make contact.

“As I said, just some options to consider. It’s unlikely we’ll get you walking again, but there’s a high probability we could do something to increase your comfort.”

Spock is startled into speaking. “You are discussing regenerative therapies.”

Amanda looks up from her reading. “Doctor McCoy was just walking me through the latest research on whatever it was I was dosed with before the— before.” She looks down again. “I must admit, I don’t understand all of it, but it sounds. Well.” She gives another smile, tighter this time, that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Something.”

She holds the PADD out to Spock who takes it from her carefully, nodding at the tea to indicate his mother should drink her fill. He looks over the contents of the paper McCoy has found. The contents are promising, but it is only one study. There were no test subjects; the breakdown of the neurotoxin has been proven under laboratory conditions but it is unclear the effect this will have on living, organic tissue. He looks to the doctor.

“The information is limited,” he says.

“I know that,” McCoy snaps, “all I’m saying is when the Yorktown arrives, there’s facilities on board to do a full neuroscan to see the extent of the damage.” He looks back to Spock’s mother. “The CMO on the Yorktown’s a good man. I can have a word with him, if you’re interested. If you haven’t had a scan since your recovery leveled out then there could be relevant changes.” He shrugs. “Even if there’s not, that’s still useful to know.”

“For you, or for me?” Amanda asks. Spock approves of the question.

The doctor seems to acknowledge the right of Spock’s mother’s question with a small shrug of his hands. “I could start with a guess, but that’s hardly logical now, is it?”

Spock’s mother smiles.

“I shall take your advice under consideration, Doctor.”

McCoy takes that for the dismissal it is and gets to his feet. “There’s a number of mobility aids available that don’t require a battery,” he says as he picks up his various possessions - the PADD, his kit, a couple of hypos that were in the space between McCoy’s leg and the chair arm. “Could help with your posture in the long run. Let me know if you’re interested.”

“I will, Doctor,” Amanda says, “thank you. And please, give my regards to Commander Kirk. I do hope he is well considering the circumstances.”

“Actually, ma’am, it’s Captain Kirk now, and he’s a tough cookie,” says McCoy, carefully avoiding looking at Spock. “Take more than this to knock him off course.”

Spock is not sure what direction and baked goods have in common but by then McCoy is making to leave; Spock goes first, hands clasped behind his back. Jim’s promotion does not come as a surprise.

It’s only when they reach the foot of the stairs that McCoy turns to him again. “You should call Jim,” he says. “You’re kind of giving out mixed signals.”

Spock does not understand. “I have not signaled anyone,” he says.

“That’s the problem,” says McCoy. “Don’t you care how he is at all?”

“It is not in a Vulcan’s nature to care,” Spock says, “nonetheless, as you have apprised me of the Commander’s well-being, the question is superfluous.”

This seems to irritate the doctor for reasons Spock is unable to discern. “Easy as that, is it?”

Spock is struggling to place himself within the conversation - if, indeed, it can be deemed such. McCoy’s utterances do not follow logically from one to the other and Spock suspects that there are inferences to be made that elude him. Standard has many ways of saying the same thing; Golic is eminently more linear, and as such Spock is less adept with nuance than the humans of his acquaintance. Conversing with Jim has improved Spock’s ability to elide the semantic gaps, able to surmise the theme if not the specifics of what Jim says to him. And yet speaking with McCoy is an exercise that, while ostensibly the same, asks a great deal more of Spock.

“Doctor McCoy,” Spock says as they approach the door, “should you wish to convey some fact to me, please do so directly so as to prevent miscommunication on your part.”

“I’ve said everything I have to say!” says McCoy. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s been going on here. I’d have to be blind not to!” He gestures animatedly with the kit. “Interfering with Jim, using your Vulcan mind tricks, then up and disappearing without a trace.” He jabs a finger at Spock’s chest, just shy of contact. “You can’t mess a man around like that, Mr. Spock. It’s not genial.”

“Should Commander Kirk wish to speak with me,” Spock says, “he need only send a message. He has my comm information.”

The doctor scowls. “And what’s that supposed to mean? You don’t want to speak with him?” He peers closely at Spock’s face; what he sees there only he could say, but he straightens, as though disappointed. “We ship out in three days,” he says, “the Farragut’s on her way back from Andoria right now.”

Spock straightens reflexively. “Another candidate has been found?” he asks.

“Candidate? What?” McCoy asks, before realizing— “No! That whole thing’s done with,” he says. He squints at Spock again. “Is that why you’ve kept your distance? You thought he’d just be tying the knot with the next one?”

“Doctor,” Spock says, “you have me at a disadvantage. It seems you are better informed than I on proceedings.”

That seems to bring McCoy to a halt; he straightens, drawing back. “Your side’s pushing to sign the treaty. Apparently the bonding isn’t so important after all. Now would you fancy that?”

The question is both nonsensical and rhetorical; Spock ignores it. “I see,” he says, experiencing a wave of disappointment. His assumptions had been correct. “Then no, I have nothing to say to the Commander at this time.”

“How can you be so unfeeling?” McCoy asks, incredulous.

“Doctor, may I remind you: it is in my nature to be so,” says Spock, repeating himself. He does not prefer to, but it seems a necessity when speaking with McCoy.

McCoy throws up his hands in a caricature of defeat. “So that’s it? Good god, man, he’s in love with you!”

“And I with him,” Spock says quietly, startled by his own admission, not so much for the fact of it but at his giving voice to it. It is most unlike him and speaks to the turmoil of the past month. He finds he is in need of meditation.

The disclosure of Spock’s sentiments is met with quiet confusion. “Well, then,” says McCoy, bouncing restlessly on his feet. “Why not just tell him that?”

“I believe Commander Kirk is aware,” Spock says, thinking of their last embrace; the brush of their fingers in the _ozh’esta_ and the accompanying flush of _affection-desire-sorrow_ that passed through his body before Jim had padded away to the fresher to prepare for his nuptials. And yet Jim’s intentions have not altered: in three days time he will depart Vulcan on the Farragut, perhaps for the final time. His first love is space; this Spock has long known.

Bones looks at him with something approaching pity. “You’re both stupid as each other,” he mutters, reaching for his parasol. “Just talk to him, would you? Can’t stand this moping around. It’s only been a day and I’m sick of it.” He palms the door panel. “If he takes it up to the Farragut with him there’s no telling what a man might do,” says McCoy, heading out into the sun. The vee that he’d driven is parked to one side, no doubt requisitioned for use by Starfleet for the duration of their stay.

Spock watches as the doctor flings his belongings haphazardly into the passenger seat, the contents of his kit rattling in a fragile class of metal and glass even as he sets that down with more care. He looks at Spock from over the top of the vee as though intending to speak further, then thinks the better of it, huffing in annoyance before closing the parasol and throwing it into the vee before heading in after it.

After he has gone, Spock contemplates his words. _You’re both as stupid as each other_ , McCoy had said. Brushing his mind against the shields he has erected around the bond, Spock wonders what he could have meant.


	26. Chapter 26

There’s a lot to do before the Farragut arrives. Pike tasks Jim with a number of reports - tells him it’s better if he gets used to the paperwork now so it won’t be as much of a surprise when he’s up in the blue - and Jim can’t tell whether he’s serious or whether he’s just happy to palm off the work. Either way, it gives him something to do that isn’t fixating on Spock every second of the day. That he reserves for every _other_ second.

He’d ended up spilling the whole sorry story to Bones on what was originally going to be his wedding night. Jim hadn’t been sure what it had said about him that he’d rather be spending it with Bones, but then he’d realized he’d rather be spending it with Spock, and that had made him feel bad because he hadn’t seen his best friend in months and he was there while Spock was not. That wasn’t exactly Spock’s fault either but Jim had been conscious that his comm had been painfully quiet all day. He knew Spock had his number and he’d told him enough times: it takes two to tango.

Bones had shaken his head. “You know I don’t like to say I told you so, but—”

“Who, you, Bones?” Jim had asked, playing at incredulous, “I’d never suggest it.”

Bones had rolled his eyes. “I knew something was afoot,” he’d said. “You couldn’t stop talking about him, and you almost never said anything about this T’Pran.”

“T’Pring, Bones.” The error was deliberate; Jim had given him a look.

“That’s how little I heard you say her name,” Bones had replied, waving a hand in dismissal. “How’s a fella supposed to remember a thing you never said?”

He’d been less sanguine about the bond.

“Are you telling me,” he’d spat, “that you let one of these pointy-eared bastards get a look inside your noggin?” He’d been wide-eyed with incredulity. “Jim, it’s practically a breach of confidentiality. The up-and-ups get wind of it and they could strip you of your command.” Lowering his voice, as though the Admiralty might be hidden around the corner, he’d added: “It’s a liability, Jim.”

“Spock would never use it that way,” Jim said, utterly convinced, “it’s a huge violation of privacy.” If there’d been one thing Jim had learned in his time on Vulcan, it’s that Vulcans took matters of privacy very seriously.

“And I’m supposed to take your word for that?” Bones had asked. “Are they?” He’d pointed towards the door in the direction where Pike had promoted him only hours before. “You’ve no guarantee of anything. This treaty falls through and your brain’s a direct line to his - what are you going to do then?”

Jim hadn’t thought about it, or rather, not the way Bones had meant. The bond itself had been on Jim’s mind in more ways than one. After the wedding had fallen through and he’d had a chance to digest Pike’s news, he’d wondered what to do about it - whether Spock would still want it dissolved. And then he’d remembered how there was supposed to be a healer involved in the process and how he’d never met one, not properly. There hadn’t been one at the formal gathering because the diplomatic corps had pushed off the _koon’ul_ , and then there hadn’t been one at the wedding because _there hadn’t been a wedding_. If it took a healer to facilitate a bond, how had one formed between him and Spock? Could bonds form without intervention? Spock had said familial bonds were spontaneous, but the process he’d described had sounded like it was triggered by both the unborn child and the parent reaching out to meet one another. But Jim isn’t an unborn Vulcan - Jim’s a fully-grown psi-null human.

It felt like something special, something new and unique. So why hadn’t Spock called?

He’d spent the next day running around ShiKahr, ferrying messages for Pike and helping organize the various dignitaries who’d yet to receive transport off-world. He’d spent most of the morning shuttling folks to the landing site for pick-up, and when he’d stopped for lunch there’d been a message on his comm - from Amanda.

_Jim, thank you so much for recommending your friend, Doctor McCoy. I had a very informative meeting with him this morning and he’s given me a lot to think about. Please let him know that I’ll be in touch soon regarding my decision. He also told me about your promotion. Congratulations, Captain Kirk! I’m so pleased for you. I know you’ll excel. I continue to be very proud of you. Of course, this means you’ll be leaving us soon. While I’m sorry to see you go, I do hope you’ll stay in touch. You’ll always have a home here on Vulcan. If I don’t see you before you depart, I wish you all the best for the future. Thank you for shining a new light in our home._

It had been hard to stay mad at Bones for sneaking off behind Jim’s back when he’d gotten a message like that out of it and Jim had resolved to find time to head out to the S’chn T’gai house before he left, if only to say goodbye properly. The opportunity had come around sooner rather than later, Pike adding another task to Jim’s to-do list, which is how, a day before he’s meant to ship out, Jim finds himself ringing Spock’s doorbell. He’s never had to do that before. It feels strange.

Spock opens the door.

That was inevitable, Jim thinks. Sarek’s probably in SihKahr trying to fix what T’Pring had upended and it’s not like Amanda was going to haul herself downstairs. Jim hadn’t really been prepared to see Spock, that’s all. For all that he’s been prodding at his end of the bond, the three-and-a-half days he’s spent back in uniform full time mean that the distance between him and Spock has grown further, even though Jim’s not gone anywhere yet. It’s a very different thing when he’s nestled in the chain of command than when he’s following Spock around, waiting for a scrap of his attention. So he’s sore about it; what of it? Why hadn’t Spock called?

Spock looks him over in a slow sweeping glance that takes him in from tip to toe and Jim flushes under the scrutiny. He’s wearing his new stripes and he’s in full regs now, so his boots are shined well enough to deter even Vulcanian sand. He looks put together, he knows, probably for the first time since Spock met him. But Spock looks good too - less peaky, more color in his skin. Jim’s hoping that’s the effect of the bond rather than not having to deal with him anymore, but he can’t be sure. For all that Spock’s not overly emotive, there’s still an air of something sad to him. Jim feels his anger deflate but his heart continues to race. It’s hopeless, he thinks; he can’t keep this up.

Spock steps aside to let him in. “Congratulations on your promotion, Captain,” he says as Jim walks by. “I have heard news of your imminent departure.” He palms the door closed before turning to face Jim, hands behind his back in that informal parade rest he prefers. Jim had thought that was some sort of Vulcan thing, but he’s seen enough of them by now to know it’s really more a Spock thing, like a kid who’s eager to put his hands on things he knows he shouldn’t. Jim had always liked that about him, that he sets his own boundaries and sticks to them. It’s not one of Jim’s strengths: he’s forever putting his hands on things he can’t have.

Jim realizes Spock’s waiting for him to reply. “Ah, yes. We leave tomorrow morning.” Spock’s tall and solemn; Jim wishes he could put his hands in damn pockets just to keep from reaching out and messing him up a little. He knows now what Spock looks like when he’s mussed; he’s got a taste for it, and seeing Spock buttoned up and proper, it’s driving him a little crazy, even as he’s standing there in Spock’s foyer wearing a uniform that’s two shades and one hat away from his dress greens.

Spock looks really good. Jim wants to kiss him.

He clears his throat awkwardly, realizing he’d lapsed into silence again. “Looks like the diplomats are going to be having it out for a while yet, and Starfleet’s claiming first dibs, so I’ve been given my new commission.” He grins then, sheepishly proud and unable to hide it. “They’ve given me the Enterprise - the new one. She’s still being built, but I’m her captain.”

“Congratulations again,” Spock says, giving a little bow. “I am gratified to learn that you have received that which you have most desired.” He tilts his head mildly in inquiry. “Is there to be an exploratory mission?” he asks. “You had mentioned the possibility.”

“Yes,” Jim says, “five years, out where no one from the Federation’s been before.” He’s giddy just thinking about it, even as nerves start to settle in his stomach. Odd how alike they feel, two kinds of anticipation. “It’s why I’m here, actually.”

For whatever reason, Spock doesn’t lead them into the house. He just stands there, waiting for Jim to speak, like the uniform has put up a wall between them. Well the uniform’s why Jim’s there, so he might as well get on with it.

“Spock,” he says, swallowing thickly. He puts his hands behind his back for lack of anything to hold; he can feel his palms getting damp. Say it, he thinks, just say the damn words. “On behalf of Starfleet, I’ve been authorized to offer you a position as Science Officer aboard the USS Enterprise.” He pauses, wincing. “That’s kind of it,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

When he looks up, Spock is visibly startled, brows almost meeting his hairline. He’s going to say no, Jim thinks, scrambling.

“Before you say anything,” he says, holding up a hand to forestall Spock’s protests, “it’s a fantastic opportunity, and you’d be so good at it, Spock, I know you would.” Spock doesn’t answer. “You can do a lot down here on Vulcan - you’re more than capable - but think how much more you’d achieve if you were on a starship! We’re talking about unexplored space,” he adds, getting excited despite himself. “New worlds, new civilizations. Phenomena you’d never see from the inside of a lab.”

Jim steps closer, hands coming up to clasp Spock by the shoulders before he remembers himself and they hover uselessly. “Plus, we could—” he softens, feeling shy. “We could keep this, right?” He taps his head.

Spock looks stricken, lips parted. He’s often quiet, thinking carefully before he speaks, but this isn’t the same as that, Jim thinks. He’s actually speechless.

“Jim,” he says at last, something heavy in his voice. “We cannot—”

“Why not?” Jim asks, frantic. “You told me it takes a healer to trigger a bond like this, but we didn’t need one. That means something,” he says, “I know it does. My mind called out to yours and you answered - or the other way around! Either way, it’s special, isn’t it?” He looks at Spock, hoping against hope. “Isn’t it?”

“Regardless of the bond,” Spock says gently, evading Jim’s questions about the nature of the bond, “I do not believe it within your purview to offer a civilian a position aboard a Starfleet vessel, not least of all from a planet that has yet to accede to the Federation.”

Jim’s momentarily thrown by the change in topic. “What? No!” He shakes his head. “It’s not— I didn’t— Spock. The offer’s from Starfleet. Pike told me they’ve had their eye on you a while and everyone’s up in arms about your latest paper. It’s from on high,” he laughs humorlessly. “I just volunteered to be the messenger boy.” He looks at Spock, trying to hold his eye. “I didn’t ask for special favors - this is all you.” He shrugs, not knowing how else to explain. “Spock. You earned it.”

They are standing much closer now than before, Jim having come closer in his excitement, and Spock having allowed him out of sheer distraction. Jim’s good at that, he knows; he can be very distracting when the occasion calls for it. But he also knows Spock needs to come to terms with things by himself. There’s no pushing him unless he wants to be pushed.

Spock doesn’t seem like he wants to be pushed. He’s doing a number on Jim’s self-esteem. “You are aware, of course,” Spock says, “that I have obligations here on Vulcan.”

“Are you talking about your mom?” Jim asks. “How’d she figure in your _kolinahr_ plan, Spock?” He nods, “I read up on it. You’d have to seclude yourself at Gol with the other Adepts, for years, maybe.”

Spock had been telling him all along what _kolinahr_ entails but Jim hadn’t understood until he’d looked it up two nights ago when he couldn’t go to sleep. He’d wanted to know how long it would take, thinking maybe if it lined up properly, he could come back to Vulcan at the end of the five year mission and see how things were, maybe convince him to give up monastic life. What he’d read had thrown him for a loop, spinning his conversations with Spock into a whole new light. He’d said it was the pursuit of pure logic; he hadn’t mentioned anything about purging all his emotions. The more Jim had read, the more his stomach had curdled, tight and unyielding. Just thinking about it now puts a bad taste in his mouth.

“You’d be away as much as you would if you’d just join Starfleet,” Jim points out, “and I’d dare say you’d see your mother more, too.”

Spock looks away, as though the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, but it must have. He’s not stupid. Whatever Spock thinks _kolinahr_ can save him from, it’s big. But it can’t be Jim, not anymore. Jim’s not on the list of eligible bachelors for the daughters of any Vulcan nobility. Jim’s not marrying anyone.

“Look,” he says, trying to calm down, “I’m going back to Earth for a year, to pick my crew and wait for my ship. You could come with me, maybe enroll in some of the general ed requirements at Starfleet, start getting familiar with how we do things.” He gestures widely. “You’re already eligible to enroll - your mother’s human, and last I checked Earth’s still part of the Federation.”

He takes a careful step forward, trying not to startle Spock. Not for the first time, Jim thinks of him like a wary cat, kind of touchy, which is an odd word for it now that he thinks about it. He tries to keep his voice low and soothing.

“I know you’ve convinced yourself that there’s things out there that aren’t within your reach,” Jim says, “but they are, Spock. You just have to put your hand out and grab them.” Another step. “T’Pring made a break for it because she doesn’t believe in no-win situations. Your mother left a whole planet behind because she had the courage of her convictions and I know,” he holds up a hand as he takes another step, “I know it’s not that easy for you. A lot of doors closed for you before you even got to see where they might lead, but damn it - it’s just not like that any more.” He shakes his head, helpless with it. “Even your mother’s getting out of here. You think Babel’s going to be her last stop? She’s scared, absolutely, but she’s curious too. You think sitting it out here is going to be enough for her once she remembers what it’s like out there? Really?”

She’s where Spock gets it from, Jim thinks, that need to explore, to know more. Sarek’s the diplomat, but Amanda’s the adventurer. She’s hungry, and Spock is too. Jim had seen it on his face on the shuttle ride; had wanted to kiss it off him and taste the wonder of it. Still does. Still can’t.

Spock doesn’t answer him. His eyes are fixed on the floor and his shoulders are rigid with tension. Jim wishes he could reach out to shoulder the weight, but even if he could, Spock would never let him. He lets out a breath, slow and heavy.

“I want you out there with me,” Jim says, “yes, because of the bond, and yes, because of your brain.” He sighs. “Even if you don’t come with me, sooner or later, you’re going to have to decide what it is you really want from your life and you’ve got to stop standing in your own way.” He’s been inching his way forward until he can force Spock to look him in the eye. “You can give up everything you have for _kolinahr_ ; you can go back to playing second fiddle at the VSA; or you can say yes to every opportunity, every experience, and live your life to its full capacity.”

Jim rubs a hand across his face, suddenly tired, not knowing what else he can say. “I just— I want you to be able fulfil your potential,” he says at last, quiet in the small space between them. “I want you to have that same thrill you had that day we went up in the shuttle, every single day. You can have that, if you want.” He swallows. “If you want it with someone else, I can arrange that too. It doesn’t have to be the Enterprise, you know.”

When Spock doesn’t answer him, Jim feels the last of his hope ebb away.

“I suppose that’s everything,” he says, stepping back. “We leave at first light. If you’re coming, meet us at the landing site.” He watches as Spock nods once, slowly. Jim wonders how someone can live inside his brain and still be so far away, the distance between them yawning like a chasm. It hurts, Jim thinks, like a band that’s close to breaking. He wonders if that’s what will happen when he makes for orbit, or whether it will just fade away after a while, like scent on a breeze.

He heads for the door. Spock doesn’t follow.


	27. Chapter 27

For the remainder of the day, Spock’s attention is split between his work and Jim’s words. In his distraction he breaks a teacup, the china shattering across the stone floor of the kitchen in stark, white shards. Later, when he returns to cook the evening meal, he almost burns the aromatics, leaving them on the heat for too long before adding the other vegetables. By the time he sits to eat with his parents, he is sorely in need of further meditation, as has often been the case of late. Spock wonders whether the Adepts of Gol would even accept him as a candidate considering his recent failings.

His mood must be discernible - another failing, he thinks - as his mother asks after his well-being while they break bread, his father joining them after spending the day in session with the High Command.

“You don’t eat enough,” Amanda chides gently. “You’re getting pale, dear.” In fact, Spock knows his pallor has improved of late, but his conversation with Jim has left him unsettled. He ducks his head slowly in an attempt to evade his father’s scrutiny.

“Will you see Jim off?” his mother asks. Spock notices his father turn to him in his periphery as though interested in Spock’s answer.

“Unlikely,” Spock replies. The shuttle is due to depart at first light and the landing site is far to the other side of the city. Without transport of his own, Spock would struggle to reach on time, and it would be illogical to attend merely to say farewell. His appearance would no doubt be confusing to Jim. No, Spock decides, he must not go, if only for Jim’s sake.

Spock had not expected to be offered a position within Starfleet, certainly not on a new ship. Perhaps if Captain Pike had approached him directly he would have composed himself sooner and offered a swift and firm rebuttal. But Jim had borne the news, every inch a commanding Starfleet Officer, his shoes polished and hair brushed back from his face. The command gold suited him, Spock thinks, and he wore it well. It had been a distraction, one that had swayed Spock’s attention when he had needed it most. A commission aboard a starship; he could never have predicted such a thing. The thought occupies his mind for the duration of the evening meal and is still on his mind when his father knocks on his door later that night.

“My son,” he says, stepping into the room. Spock stands to receive him. “I would have your thoughts.”

“Father,” Spock says, unable to lie and yet unable to be more forthcoming, “I must decline.”

“As I thought.” The answer does not seem to surprise his father, nor does he turn to leave. Spock indicates the chair by the desk, inviting him to sit. He himself takes a seat on his bed. It is a most unusual occurrence: formal conversations with his father take place in his father’s office, a place imbued with Spock’s childhood anxieties. That Sarek has approached Spock instead of requesting his presence speaks to some unnamed motivation.

“I have received much news of you, my son,” his father says. “I spoke with T’Sal yesterday afternoon. She informed me that you have all but vacated your position at the Vulcan Science Academy.”

Uncertain how to answer, Spock elects not to speak at all. He need not have concerned himself; his father has more to say.

“Following this, I spoke to Starfleet Fleet Captain Pike today.” His father’s gaze is unflinching. “He informed me that Starfleet intended to make you an offer of employment this morning.” Sarek raises an eyebrow. “Did you receive such an offer, my son?”

“Affirmative,” Spock answers.

“I would surmise this as the most logical reason for your withdrawal from the VSA,” his father says, “but it has come to my attention that Captain Pike’s invitation did not precede your departure but followed it, at least a month subsequent.” He pauses. It is unusual for his father to be circumspect; the aberrant behavior makes Spock cautious.

“My son,” Sarek says at last when Spock gives no reply, “the pursuit of _kolinahr_ is a most worthy endeavor but I must urge you to consider whether other opportunities may serve you better.”

Unprepared for his father’s deductive prowess, Spock is forced to truncate his instinctive flinch. His father was always proficient at eliciting an emotional response when Spock least wished to display one. It is all the more striking, therefore, when Sarek does not point out his misstep. When he next speaks, despite his tone, there is an air of contrition to his words.

“When you were a child,” says Sarek, hands folded in his lap, “it had been my wish to see you exceed at whatever you turned your mind to - not for myself, but for you, as an individual. I believed the Vulcan Science Academy would give you the best opportunities to excel.”

These are familiar words, albeit accompanied with greater context. As a child, Spock’s father had been his best and first instructor in a number of fields - computer science, mathematics, physics and more - and he believes that had his father not followed his forefathers into diplomacy, he would have chosen to be a scientist himself. That Sarek had wished for Spock to follow his footsteps to the VSA had not been a secret. That Spock had afterwards elected to remain he had assumed had met with his father’s approval, scant and voiceless though it could be.

“I was aware of your application to Starfleet,” his father says, revealing that which Spock had not known. “That circumstances conspired to prevent your enrollment was not displeasing to me at the time. It had been my belief that the decision you made, to remain on Vulcan and attend the VSA, was ultimately to your benefit.” Sarek ducks his head, though his gaze is unwavering. “My son, I was in error.”

It is not in Spock’s father’s nature to admit wrongdoing, wilful or otherwise. Spock straightens on hearing his father’s words. “I do not understand,” he says. “I have applied myself to each task bestowed upon me with utmost diligence and I have excelled in my field, a logical outcome of the efforts I exert.” He frowns. “Have I not met the parameters of your expectations?”

“Certainly,” his father replies, sanguine, “and yet I have watched you become confined within those parameters, to be defined and constrained by the routines you uphold.” Spock’s confusion is conspicuous. “You recall your antics as a young boy,” Sarek says, “your insistence on entering the desert alone for days, with no notice of where you had gone and when you would return.”

It is true; Spock had often sought sanctuary from his peers and from the expectations that Vulcan society placed on him. His father had forbidden him, and often had punished his disobedience, and yet Spock, who in all other ways was attentive to his parents’ wishes, had continued to pursue peace in the desert.

“Though I forbade you,” Sarek continues, “still you would continue, and despite my displeasure at your behavior - at your wilful disregard of my authority - I recognized that at your core you were resilient and tenacious, facets of your being that no doubt would serve you well.” His shoulders fall slowly in a sigh, a behavior Spock has only ever witnessed on his mother and, more recently, Jim, albeit much more dramatically.

Spock has never heard his father speak of him thus, directly or to others. Though he no longer believes his father is disappointed in him, he had endeavored throughout his life to achieve Sarek’s tacit approval. In caring for his mother, both he and his father had long since come to terms with one another’s differences, reaching unity. To hear his father question his path now causes Spock no small amount of alarm.

As if sensing this, his father continues. “I could not have foreseen the manner in which our lives were transformed,” he says, speaking of Amanda’s injuries and subsequent rehabilitation. “You have in you the same persistent curiosity that I have witnessed in your mother, and yet circumstances have caged you both. Over the years, I have watched you both withdraw to the comfort of your respective habits.” He pins Spock with a look. “I do not imply you are either of you complacent and yet it remains true that neither of you have reached the heights you are each capable of.”

“Your mother has agreed to speak at the Babel Conference,” Sarek says, “a decision neither you nor I could have predicted with accuracy. Your mother is not as she once was, my son. Though anticipation of the conference brings her great concern, it also animates her.” He sighs again, as though the words he finds are not the ones he seeks. “Your mother is in the process of returning to her intended path. I wish to see the same of you.”

Spock finds he is unable to answer his father. He thinks of his one-time hope to attend Starfleet; he thinks of his conviction that he could not. He had accepted the fact of his life as was the Vulcan way. _Kaiidth_ , he had told himself: what is, is. To learn now that what he had believed to have been an immutable fact was indeed more malleable than he had previously assumed led to many questions, few with unequivocal answers.

“You wish for me to accept?” Spock asks, recalling his father’s speech in detail in an attempt to decipher his advice.

“I wish for you to exceed the bounds of ShiKahr,” his father says, “indeed, to exceed the bounds of Vulcan. I encourage you to acknowledge and assess all the options available to you, considering each on its own merits. As your mother would say,” he adds, inclining his head in a reserved show of fondness, one that can only be expressed within the walls of their home, “you must broaden your horizons, my son.”

Sarek stands and turns for the door. There he pauses once more. Spock also rises to his feet.

“It is a remarkable thing to have suffered no ill-effects following the dissolution of the _koon’ul_ ,” he says, looking at Spock over his shoulder. “I have not heard of such resilience outside the protection of a _t’hy’la_ bond. But, of course, it is not possible for this to be the source of your resistance.”

 _T’hy’la_ , Spock thinks. Could it be? A thing he has only heard of in legend, in stories of old. Spock resolves to seek answers in the library. It is highly improbable; such a thing has not been discovered in many eons. He realizes his father is watching him carefully. Spock tamps down on his autonomic responses, refusing to allow the flush to cross his face.

“Not possible,” his father says echoing his thoughts, “and yet not impossible. The _t’hy’la_ bond is a sacred gift among our people, my son.” He turns to the door once more, stepping out after it slides open to allow him egress. “Such a thing should not be fettered.”

“You have given me much to think on, Father,” Spock says, bowing slightly at the waist, watching as his father departs, his footsteps even and unhurried. Spock listens as he ascends the stairs until he reaches the top floor where Spock’s mother no doubt awaits his return.

  
  


Spock has long considered the library to be his mother’s domain, though the majority of books and scrolls within it are inherited from his father’s family. Before, they had sat within the various offices of the property, each owner hoarding their own private collections. Before his mother’s arrival, the room had been another dining hall, one in which the family seat would entertain their guests, for what passes as entertainment on Vulcan.

Spock’s father had requisitioned use of the space, the far wing of the property being where he and Amanda had taken up residence after their swift departure from Earth. It was there Amanda had kept her work, the desk which Spock had claimed for his own use while Jim would lounge on the low, upholstered seat being his mother’s previous bureau. It had proven too heavy and cumbersome to remove, and so his father had purchased another for his wife’s use, one with ample space for a wheelchair to fit under it. Both the desk and the shelves had been made from wood imported to ShiKahr from the far continents, where increased rainfall meant trees were in greater abundance. The wood is dark and unblemished; the library is a peaceful sanctuary.

As a child, Spock had spent his hours here with his mother taking his fill of the shelves, intrigued by every tome he lifted. His mother had owned a great many books, collections of old Earth literature and Andorian fiction; Deltan sheet music and Denobulan philosophical texts. There were Ancient Golic scrolls stored in sealed cases and dictionaries aplenty, some Amanda had even contributed herself. Spock’s favorites as a young boy - and he did have favorites, regardless that Vulcans as a rule do not - were the ancient myths, stories of old gods and savage warriors, the fierce tempers of their roving passions capturing Spock’s attention long before his love of science. He had understood something of their petty frustrations, their insatiable desires; even as an infant, some part of Spock had hungered in a way that the Vulcan within him could not appease.

Hunger is not merely a human impulse, and yet it can feel as though it is, here among Spock’s people.

The stories that had fascinated him the most had been those of the gods of old, but he had come across tales of a bond so strong that it was forged without touch and sprang forth between enemy warriors on the sand of the Forge. It had been the _t’hy’la_ bond that had led to political marriages, emulations of ancient bonds between warring generals that had brought unexpected peace to their clans. Of course, the political bondings were rarely so successful, but the stories of old had described entire battalions brought to a halt by the power of these unions.

For a short, shameful period of his life, Spock had harbored hopes T’Pring would be revealed to be his _t’hy’la_ : that through the ashes of her regard would rise a powerful connection, one even she could not deny. As he had grown, he had soon put such ideas aside: the _t’hy’la_ bond was a myth.

And yet even T’Pau had spoken of it, however obliquely. _Such a thing should not be fettered_ , his father had said. Both had seemed convinced of some truth Spock had not known to consider.

He contemplates the bond, the weight of it, it’s strength. Could Jim be his _t’hy’la_? A friend, a brother, a lover. The idea fills Spock with nameless agitation neither positive nor negative in its connotations, merely powerful and disruptive. Can one word hold so much? Can one bond?

He must complete further research.

It is past midnight by the time Spock retires for the evening. What he has learned has given him much to think about. Once sequestered in his rooms again, he changes into his robes, determined to separate and parse each of his conflicting thoughts in turn. He retrieves the _asenoi_ , pouring oil into the lamp with ease born of years of practice. It is the oil Jim had gifted him, pungent with spice and heat, and despite Spock’s slow-churning turmoil, it centers him cleanly. He must meditate; there is much to consider. There are many doors before him.


	28. Chapter 28

After he leaves Spock to his own devices, Jim sticks to his comm all day. There’s barely a moment that goes by when it isn’t in his hand, and the few times it’s not he has to pat himself down, wondering where he’s left it, only to find it clipped to his pocket or, hey, that’s his other hand. All day he’s left wondering whether he’d said too much or not said nearly enough. All day the smallest things bring Spock to mind: ensigns standing at parade rest as they trip over themselves to give Jim their reports; the hull of the Enterprise, curving like Spock’s brow; the long road back to ShiKahr that he’d walked twice a day for almost the duration of his life.

He’d stopped in to see Spock on his way out to the old wreck, where Pike wants him to speak to Barry about what else she might need to get the job done sooner rather than later. It’s getting weird to think of the wreck as being the Enterprise and not just because Jim knows there’s a ship with the same name waiting for him back at Earth. As he swings the vee in the direction of the site, it’s beginning to look less like something that once flew in space and more like what it is underneath: a skeletal mass, bones of steel and tritanium, the duranium hull prised away to reveal heavy girders arching abortively into the sky. The salvage operation’s making good headway. Jim thinks they’ll be done in a few months; Caitlin Barry agrees.

It’s sort of a farewell tour, Jim thinks as he goes through his task list, the crews coming out to wave to him or clap a hand on his back one last time. It’s not likely he’ll see them again - planetary salvage is typically the remit of landlubbers, the work grueling and manual even at the best of times, and they tend to be the kind of folks who only see space when they’re being carted from one site to another. Some of them are ex-Fleet; most of them grew up in the trade. Jim’s going to miss them, he thinks, coming back round to the front of the site, listening to the ongoing cacophony of metal against metal, the screech of protest that careens through the dome as another plate is lasered off the hull in a great warped sheet under Barry’s watchful eye.

“Captain,” she greets, a happy glint in her eye. “I’ve got something for you.” She heads off to a makeshift table that seems to be made up of one of the consoles from the ship’s helm and brings back a slim but still hefty slice of duranium, bent on a smooth curve. “We pulled it out yesterday,” she says, turning it over in her hands. It’s blackened in places, be that from the crash or the salvage, but Jim can see it’s got something etched on the convex side. He comes closer for a better look and Barry hands it over. “It’s yours now. Figured you could find a place for it.”

It’s a piece of the hull, from the very back of the saucer section - had probably sat above an observation window, centered out towards the nacelles. It’s normally the last piece that gets soldered in, a sort of keystone that’s unlikely to be visible to anyone who isn’t standing right in front of it. Jim runs his hands across the surface of the metal, feeling his fingers catch lightly on the engraving: _USS Enterprise NCC-1701_. He wonders whether they’d accept it back at the shipyard, if they’d consider using it in place of a new one, a way of keeping one eye on where they’d come from even as they carve their way into the future.

“Shouldn’t Pike have this?” he asks, flicking his gaze up to Barry, but she shakes her head.

“He already knows where he’s been,” is all she says. She holds out her hand. “It’s been a pleasure, sir.”

“Believe me,” Jim says, shaking her hand once, “the pleasure was most definitely mine.”

  
  


The rest of the day passes in much the same way. Jim checks his comm before he sets off for ShiKahr, hull plating making a dent in the passenger seat. He checks again when he reaches his old digs where the embassy staff are running back and forth trying to pull together Vulcan edicts and Federation amendments to work out a middle ground that will let Aberforth reopen negotiations.

“He’s practically frothing at the mouth,” Nori mutters to Jim when he helps her relocate one of the terminals so she’s not in the middle of two separate and distinct holocalls, Krazh talking something out with Ambassador Shraz while Ankhor seems to be mediating something in the council chambers.

“I suppose I can’t tempt you out for lunch,” Jim says, handing Nori a secure PADD from Pike once they’ve safely deposited the terminal on the kitchen bench, watching as Grevim and Toddan pore over a forest’s worth of paper bound in thick leather, PADDs scattered around as they look up various clauses that are relevant to their work.

Nori sighs, hands on her hips while she stretches her back; something pops ominously but she doesn’t flinch. “Not today, I’m sorry,” she says, shrugging, “it’s chaos.”

“Watch closely,” Toddan says over his shoulder without looking up, “and be grateful you get to leave this burning hellhole.”

Jim ends up bringing lunch to them - he goes all the way to The Zephyr to get it but it’s worth it to see everyone digging in, one hand in their food, the other on something that needs their attention. Jim grabs something that resembles a sandwich on his way out, Nori and Ankhor promising they’ll meet him for dinner, before he sweeps a look at his comm - still blank - and then gets back in the vee.

He loses an hour trying to track down Bones who’s supposed to be in the medical center, but seems to have been diverted on some task or other at every place Jim goes to find him. He finally finds him back where he’d started, outside the medical center, and by then Bones is grumbling about Jim being tardy, a complaint that only goes away when Jim produces food.

They get into the vee, Bones tucking in to his late lunch while Jim checks his comm again. There’s a message from Pike canceling two of his drops and another from Nori with the address of a restaurant she recommends, but nothing else. Jim closes his comm with a frustrated snap and pointedly doesn’t look at Bones as he starts up the thrusters. “What were you running around for anyway?” Jim asks.

“Mrs. Sarek gave me permission to look up her medical files,” he says. “I was going through the data when I realized some of the records were split so then I had to go to the archive to retrieve them and they sent me on a merry chase.”

“Did you get what you need?” Jim asks.

“Eventually,” says Bones, taking another bite of his food. “First glance, everything she told me checks out. The rate she was being dosed back then it’s a wonder she didn’t give out before the crash.” He frowns. “Won’t be able to do much more unless she agrees to a scan on the Yorktown.” Bones cuts a glance at him over the console. “Don’t suppose you made it up to see her this morning?”

He hadn’t, Jim realizes, cursing himself. He’d been so wrapped up in trying to convince Spock that he’d forgotten all about going to say goodbye to Amanda. He’ll have to holo her before he leaves, he decides. If Spock would just call him already, he thinks, everything would be so much easier. He can’t very well go back to see Amanda now, not when he’s already been out there once today.

Bones is watching him carefully. “He said no, I take it.”

“He didn’t say anything,” Jim says, “and he’s gone radio silent. Again.”

Expecting Bones to scoff, Jim’s surprised when his next words are unusually soft. “Might be for the best,” he says, scowling when Jim turns to frown at him. “Hell, Jim, maybe it’s time to accept you can’t always get what you want.” He sighs when Jim turns back to watch the road, neatly evading some pedestrians who don’t see him approach from behind. “I’m just saying, maybe a clean break’s what you need. Just get out of here and put this whole thing behind you.”

Easier said than done, Jim thinks, prodding the soft, warm part of his mind where the bond is kept. It’s like an itch he can’t help but scratch. Even though he knows Spock is shielding, Jim’s been reaching helplessly for the bond, nudging gently at intervals to see if there’s any give. He thinks about the _niv’orakh_ , the way it had looked when it was in bloom and a bright pain blossoms in his chest at the thought of never seeing it again.

He spends the afternoon packing his gear and organizing efforts to clear out the building which has been a wayward base of operations whenever Command sends an officer out to ShiKahr. They’re clearing out properly this time; Pike says they’ve overstayed their welcome, which doesn’t exactly bode well for the treaty. Jim wonders whether T’Pring staying would have helped or whether it would have fallen apart after a few years, _telsu_ or no. Not for the first time, he wonders whether T’Pring had the right idea after all, getting out while she could. Increasingly he’s finding it hard to find fault in her logic which, if nothing else, proves he’s been on Vulcan too long.

He calls Amanda before he and Bones head out for the evening, not sure whether he’s hoping Spock is with her or not. When the call connects Spock’s nowhere to be seen, but Amanda is there, hands folded serenely in her lap. She looks a lot better than she had the last time he’d seen her, pale-faced and tight-lipped as Pike had pushed him out the front door of her house. She’s lost that sense of being calcified, shoulders loose and eyes clear.

“Hello, Jim,” she says, smiling warmly. She fusses briefly with her shawl, shifting it slightly so it sits away from her face. “I’m so glad you called.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come by,” he says, thinking about how he’d stood in her foyer for half an hour that morning trying to cradle his own heart in his chest. “How are you? Are you ready to head out?”

“We’ve a few days yet,” Amanda says, neatly deflecting, “not like you. Are you ready?”

He thinks about it and the answer feels right. “Yes,” he says, “I am.” Even if Spock doesn’t answer - even if he answers and says no; even if he says yes, but no to Jim - he’s ready. It’s time to head back up. He’s missed it. He settles a little at the thought: it _is_ time. He quirks a smile at Amanda over the holo, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me,” he jokes, “I think I’ve outstayed my welcome.”

They talk for a few minutes, Jim doing his best to assure Amanda that the trip to Babel will be a worthwhile adventure. “If nothing else, it’ll be a vacation,” he says, “and just look at Sarek. Doesn’t he need one? The poor man doesn’t even laugh anymore.”

Amanda’s eyes twinkle with delight. “I’ll tell him you said that,” she says, indulgent.

“Can you wait until tomorrow,” Jim asks, “give me a head start?”

He signs off shortly after promising to keep in touch and checks his messages by reflex even though he didn’t get any notifications during the holo. Spock’s probably cooking right now, too busy to spare a thought for him. He decides to leave the comm in his quarters; Bones will have his and Jim knows if he takes his with him he’ll only spend the whole night disappointed when Spock doesn’t message. Sooner or later Jim’s got to get on with things. He can’t spend his whole life waiting.

“You ready?” Bones asks from the doorway, fussing with the collar on his shirt.

“Let’s go,” says Jim, heading out behind him. He hesitates briefly, then leaves his comm on the dresser. It’s not important. It’ll still be there when he gets back.

  
  


Morning comes too quickly. The alarm wakes them a few hours after they’d stumbled back in, not drunk but hardly sober, Bones and Jim knocking into each other at angles as they’d tried to get back to their quarters without waking anyone else. They’d been out all night, meeting the embassy staff for dinner and breaking bread with other members of Starfleet who were also due to ship out the next day. Pike had joined them early in the evening, staying just long enough to finish his meal. He’d clapped Jim on the back as he’d headed out, reminding him his shuttle was at sunrise.

Barry had joined, bringing some of the salvage crew, but thankfully leaving the ensigns back in their barracks. She’d brought some engine room hooch with her, though where she’d got it from was anyone’s guess. Jim had been fairly certain he’d heard tell that she hadn’t been tolerant of the rotgut and she’d tanked the distilleries on the Enterprise when she’d been promoted to Chief by Pike, but she’d brought the good stuff nonetheless, and no one - least of Jim - was complaining.

It had been a good night all in all, various people dropping off one by one until it had just been the three of them, Bones, Jim and Barry, with the embassy staff. Grevim had begged off by midnight; Toddan hadn’t arrived at all. Jim’s beginning to think Elise never leaves Aberforth’s side unless he barks some demand at her, because he’s never seen her when he’s not around, and she hadn’t made it out for dinner that night. Jim had seen Aberforth the day before while doing his rounds; the ambassador had been in good spirits and he’d clapped Jim heavily on the back. “Better run while you can, lad,” he’d said jovially, “before these Vulcans rethink their reticence.”

“Are you really going to fight them on these terms?” Jim had asked, somehow curious and indifferent both at the same time. Now that he wasn’t part of the deal he could afford to be more objective about the whole thing. It struck him as faintly ridiculous to throw over a year of work just because the Vulcans had chosen an unreliable candidate, but then again, Jim’s not in trade or diplomacy; maybe that’s enough to slam the breaks.

Illogical, he’d thought at the time, not entirely on board with Aberforth’s almost-prurient glee. It’s just damn illogical.

He’d wondered, briefly, whether Onadera Marchese agreed, but then he’d thought about the work Grevim had been doing, buried up to her neck in legalities day after day, and he assumed they were all on board. It had been weird, in the end, how little he’d had to do with the whole thing. It makes him wonder what it had all been for.

He’d still been thinking about it when he’d crawled under the sheets, knowing the alarm would go off in a few hours and there was nothing he could do about it. Despite his better instincts, he’d reached for his comm.

Still nothing.

He and Bones have to dress fairly quickly, both of them the worse for wear. Bones hits him with a one-two punch of hypos while his back’s turned, one a half-dose of tri-ox, just to get Jim through the atmosphere in one piece and one a hangover cure, overkill but welcome too. In the absence of coffee, the mild stims would have to do. By the time they get their gear outside, Nori is waiting to drive them to the landing site. She’s a little more alert than them, augments doing some of the heavy lifting, but Bones throws her a hypo too and she sighs with relief as it kicks in. “Damn, Doc,” she murmurs, “where’ve you been hiding that thing?”

She looks side-long at Jim as he climbs into the passenger seat. “Anything?” she asks quietly. He flips open the comm in case anything’s changed from five minutes before and shakes his head minutely. Not a dickie bird.

It’s still early enough to be dark out. Jim’s never really seen the city this way; even when Spock was hauling him out of bed to run, first light had already sprung and he could at least see his feet. Now, as they glide smoothly through the sleeping city, the shadows loom ominously. When they break out of the old town, light from T’Khut casts the city into new shapes, shadows seeming deeper, the open faces of each building becoming something ethereal.

Somewhere on the far side of the city, Spock is probably still meditating, Jim thinks, or maybe he’s working through the forms of the _Suus Mahna_ , every movement led by finely-controlled tension, the smooth, elongated forms hiding unseen power under a veil of grace. Jim wonders if maybe Spock’s sleeping for the first time since Jim had slept with him, whether tonight’s the night he lets his body recuperate as well as his mind. Maybe he’s still sleeping, or maybe he’s just woken, his incredible sense of timing telling him Jim is leaving the city for what could be the last time. Maybe he’s feeling regret. Maybe he hasn’t noticed at all.

As they leave the city limits, the sky is beginning to change on the horizon, blue-black eking away to mauve and pink. From here the city stretches out behind them, and Jim thinks about the first time he’d seen those gargantuan towers, Sokel easing them across the sand while Spock sat quietly trying to work out how to tell Jim that maybe he should keep his hands to himself. Jim knows that now; can think of some day, some memory and remember what Spock had been thinking even though he’d never told Jim. He can’t force it but it will come to him sometimes without warning, what Spock had thought or wanted to say; what he had held back and why. Jim gives himself a moment to close his eyes and remember - Spock’s face, his hands; the calm pointed wit of him, and the weight of his regard. He remembers Spock as he had been that first day, and Spock on the balcony of the Great Hall, the distance between them halved and halved again. He remembers the way Spock’s hand had felt in his hair the night of the first _mazhyon_ , and how it had felt, later, against his temple, his throat, his chest. He thinks of the spark between their hands whenever their fingers had met in the _ozh’esta_ ; he thinks of the look in Spock’s eyes when Jim had looked back at him from under the cover of rain. He remembers Spock’s mind, and his kindness, and his steadfast conviction in his duties as a son and as a Vulcan.

Jim had never stood a chance.

By the time they reach the landing site, the shuttle is already waiting. It’s a newer model, one of the four-seaters that Jim had told Spock about, with multiphasic shielding and room for storage. It’s already packed, Pike’s team having got there the night before no doubt, the pilot spending the night in the cockpit, poor bastard.

Bones hops out as soon as Nori draws to a halt, dragging his luggage and kit bags with him. Jim waits a moment, flipping open his comm to check one last time. Nothing. He hadn’t expected anything, not really, not when Spock’s the kind of man who commits entirely. He would have messaged by now if he was planning on accepting Pike’s - _Jim’s_ \- offer. He would have messaged by now if that was something he had wanted.

Jim debates sending something in farewell. He starts a couple of times but everything he wants to say is too big for a text comm, especially when he’s got an audience. In the end he decides against it. He doesn’t have anything new to say. Jim loves Spock; he wants him to come with him; he wants him to give up _kolinahr_ and the VSA and join him up in the blue, eyes wide with that fragile delight Jim had seen in him when he’d taken him up in the shuttle. It’s nothing new. It’s nothing he hasn’t already said.

In his mind’s eye, he brushes his hand through the blossoms of the _niv’orakh_ , his touch as gentle as a chaste parting kiss.

He gets out of the vee, hauling his bags with him, the hull plate from the Enterprise tucked safely inside. Nori is waiting for him and he bends down to hug her. “You’d better keep in touch,” she says, “it’s going to be weird here without you.”

“You’ve got my comm,” Jim says, straightening. “You know how to use it.”

He turns for the shuttle, pausing briefly when he sees the pilot.

“Lieutenant Sulu,” he says, with no small amount of surprise.

“Good to see you made it out in one piece, sir,” says Sulu with a lopsided grin. “Ready to go when you are.”

Jim nods, feeling slightly wrong-footed but he recovers quickly, swinging his bags off his shoulder to sling them into the shuttle.

“Uh—” Sulu tries to interrupt him.

“You’d better store those back here,” Bones says, bouncing lightly on his toes. He seems weirdly excitable considering the hour.

Jim gives him a look.

“The doctor’s right,” says Sulu, “there’s more space in the cargo hold.” He smiles again, the expression a little awkward like he’s fighting it but he just can’t help himself. “We’ve got a guest,” he says at last.

For a moment, Jim forgets to breathe.

Behind him the first rays of dawn breach the horizon. The sky is lighter now, the shadows still long, but out here on the plains beyond the shuttle, night is chased away. The air is still cool, or as cool as it ever gets on Vulcan, the sweet fire of it licking sweat along his hairline. Almost a whole year, and he’d never quite gotten used to it, that crisp, dry heat that seems to live in the planet itself, never petering out, even in the dark of night. Sunlight encroaches upon the sand in slow increments, an incoming tide of day stretching its reach enough that Jim can just about see inside the shuttle. He steps forward, heart thundering behind his ribs, the rapid tattoo of it pounding in his ears. He has to squint a little but there’s movement inside, a shadow that unfolds into the early light of day.

“Spock.”

Jim can hardly believe his eyes. He’d all but given up hope, resigned himself to living out his days knowing that wherever he went - whatever wonders he uncovered - there would always be a tether to Vulcan that would not let him be. That would just be the way of things, he’d thought, almost Vulcan in his rationalization.

" _Kaiidith_ ,” Spock says, as though reading his mind. What is, is.

Jim swallows thickly, questions running a mile a minute in his head. “What are you doing here?” he says in the end, hands spread out, helpless.

Spock steps out of the shuttle and approaches quietly, hands held behind his back in that causal parade rest he so often prefers. He’s dressed the way he always is when he comes to Jim, dark gray trousers, dark gray tunic. He seems a lot more awake than Jim, but that’s hardly difficult. His eyes are clear, warm in the light of the rising sun.

“I believe,” he says softly, “you have an offer of employment for me.”

Jim frowns. “Is that all?”

Spock watches him carefully, his gaze like a touch on Jim’s face. Somewhere in Jim’s periphery Bones is muttering to himself; Sulu has already boarded the shuttle. Nori is behind him, he thinks, but he’s not sure, it doesn’t matter - he doesn’t care right now. Nothing matters that isn’t Spock and whatever Spock says next.

It’s always so hot on Vulcan that Jim doesn’t realize at first that the heat he can feel is inside his mind. It starts off low and simmering, a breeze of a thing that grows quickly, brightens at a stretch like the dawn behind him, the firm press of it expanding like a balloon inflating inside his mind but not heavy as such, just burgeoning. There’s something carefully kind about it, a little remorseful, mostly just plush with comfort and care. Something brave. Something safe.

“Spock,” Jim says again, his name slipping from Jim’s mouth on an exhale.

" _Taluhk nash-veh k’dular, ashayam,_ ” Spock says, the echo of his words passing from his mind to Jim’s along the newly unshuttered bond. _I cherish thee, beloved._ He raises his right arm, extending two fingers to Jim, patient and still.

Spock would wait forever, Jim thinks, if that’s what it would take.

Try as he might, Jim’s not that stoic. He steps forward to meet Spock half way, fingers brushing against Spock’s own, the quick hot flicker that runs through them both bursting like fireworks, like joy, like white-blooming blossoms on the vines of a storm-weathered _niv’orakh_. Jim accepts the _ozh’esta_ and keeps going, stepping forward until his hand is wrapped around Spock’s, their arms pressed together as he lifts up, mouth wet just from the thought of it, and presses his lips to Spock’s. In the back of his mind he pictures petals unfurling, opening up under the gaze of the sun and he feels giddy with it, happiness bubbling up beneath his sternum until his whole body is awash with it. He can feel Spock opening up, his mouth pressing back, once, thrice, a fourth time and yes, there too, this unending awareness of him in every cell, everywhere. Spock is here. He’s _here_.

Jim breaks away slowly, laughing as Spock chases after him for another kiss, just one more, and he puts his hand to his chest pressing lightly. Behind Spock, Bones has given up waiting, clambering noisily into the shuttle, and Jim thinks he heard Nori whistle at one point but he didn’t want to stop and check. Spock’s lips look close to swollen, a sallow flush to his cheeks, and he looks so good Jim has to duck in again, just quickly, one swift press of lips to his.

He strokes a thumb over Spock’s jaw, unable to hold back his smile.

“How’s that for a tactile display, Mr. Spock?” he asks, half-teasing, half-breathless.

Spock tightens his grip on Jim’s hand, shivering.

“It is adequate,” he says with gentle amusement, lowering his mouth to Jim’s again.

  
[Despite themselves, Jim and Spock find one another](https://i.ibb.co/FHmR0FM/IMG-8142.jpg) by [Em95](station-station.tumblr.com) (click to enlarge)

**THE END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Title and epigraph from Jack Gilbert's _[The Great Fires](https://motherground.tumblr.com/post/622337002220781568/the-great-fires)_.
> 
> First of all, a huge thanks to **[Em95](https://station-station.tumblr.com)** who was paired with me to produce art for this beast of a fic back when I still thought it was only going to be 60k long, and who has been a genuine delight to work with through this entire process. She has been an amazing morale booster, and she had some lovely ideas. Her work is embedded in the relevant chapters - if you haven't already, please click through the captions to see the hi-res versions, and then send her some love because she worked so hard and I'm so excited to share her art for this fic with you all! Guys, some of these are _paintings_. I can't even.  
>   
> Secondly, thank you to my betas. **[hestia8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestia8)** has been my beta for years, and my erstwhile cheerleader, and this is the biggest project I've ever sent her, and she took it on with her usual gusto and care. **[grenadine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grenadine)** is not in Star Trek fandom at all, but when I asked her to do a Britpick for me, she waded through over 100k of something that is not even remotely her interest, gently weeding out my Britishisms and reminding me how to use commas in lists. Thank you to all my **pocketfriends** who listened to me whine about how long the fic was, and how it wouldn't end, and who basically held my hand whilst I was being a crybaby.  
>   
> And last but not least, thank you to **[greenforsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenforsnow)** (whose Big Bang ~~gets posted tomorrow~~ is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25015753)!) for encouraging me to sign up, helping me bounce around ideas, and listening to me ramble on and on and on about whatever Star Trek thing had caught my attention at any given moment. Without her this fic would not exist because I wouldn't have even bothered trying. Thank you, thank you, thank you!


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